Distance Walked: 283 miles
Current No. Blisters: ~3
(Bonus points if anyone has actually heard of Villeneuve-sur-Aisne.)
Saturday morning began with another march alongside Jean-Noël (Jean and Marie’s neighbour), from Villers-Chatêl. He’d already walked the distance we’d walked the previous day by eight that morning, when we met in Arras. He must have got up at four or five, and made a cracking pace; it’s incredible, but that’s what he does! It was a hot, fast, but very enjoyable walk to Baupaume that day, and did involve the two of us crawling under more than a few gates. We had arrived and parted by lunchtime, but not before exchanging contact details, nor before I’d secured a promise for his Galette recipe (Jean-Noël always carried a flask of coffee, two cups, and a tin of little cakes/galettes, which he very generously shared). I have since received the recipe, and will be baking galettes on my return to England!
Sunday was a more sombre walk from Baupaume to Peronne. Both towns, then under the control of the German Empire, were the original targets of the WWI battles of the Somme. It was difficult to imagine one of the bloodiest battles in human history taking place where now only vast fields, and scattered forests sit, dotted about with reminders of war in the form of military cemeteries. Many of them were British cemeteries. I took a good few rests from walking to read the gravestones. It was sobering to see that many were marked with ages younger than my own. The grass and flowers around the graves were neatly trimmed, and well maintained by the Commonwealth War Graves Commision. Vans marked as such occasionally overtook me on the quiet country roads of the Somme.
During the day, I bade farewell to Pas-de-Calais, after a week in the region, and officially entered the Somme Department of France. Unfortunately, I rather carelessly roasted in the sun, and developed that pinkish red characteristic of British people abroad. I’ve only just about recovered!
I camped one night at a campsite set on the banks of the Somme River, and slept really rather well. Tuesday was for the most part very enjoyable. Much of the day was spent walking along pretty canals around Tergnier. I discovered one thing though: it’s really not clear from the maps in the guidebook which side of the canal to walk on. At some point, whilst walking down a particularly wild bit of canal-side path, I noticed a purple backpack bobbing up and down on the other side of the canal. The chap walking on the other side waved, and we shouted at each other for a while, over the water. The first words to bounce over the water were: “you must be the English one!”. I wasn’t sure if this had been deduced from my wading through greenery with a slightly lost expression, or simply because there were so few pilgrims about. He elaborated over the canal that he had heard about me from Paul, a vicar walking the pilgrim route I’d talked with the previous day. We talked a bit, and walked on, neither addressing the elephant in the room: we were on different sides of the canal. After a while, something large and brown began to fade into view on my side. I plodded towards it, silently praying that it was not a locked gate (not because it would add three kilometers to a long day, but rather because I’d be terribly embarrassed). It was a locked gate, and I was indeed embarrassed. I waved goodbye to the Swiss chap, and plodded back to the nearest footbridge.
Quote of the week, said rather forcefully that evening, and with much gesturing: “vous dormirez en les toilettes!” (sorry for French spelling/conjugation).
This was said to me on Tuesday afternoon, just after I had checked into (another) empty campsite, this one in La Fère. I was sitting under a little shelter (roof with no walls) watching the hail, rain, and tide of flowing clouds above. I had rather wisely decided to wait a little before setting up the tent. An almighty crack of thunder broke over the town (it must have been very close), with more following. Barely two minutes after this, a car approached, the immortal words were uttered, and I was led to the facilities.
The lady very kindly gave me a pop up bed thing (I thought it was a foldable chair initially) and I was set up in a room with three large sinks. It did smell a little of urine initially, but when I left in the morning the air remained heavy with the odours of olives, bread and ham. All I lacked was a little wine, which it was not worth braving the rain to find. In the end though, after the late afternoon storm had passed, it was a calm night.
The walk to Laon the next day was rather tough. In theory it was to be the longest stage of the walk before Switzerland, at 40 km. I’d already cut this down a tad by not finding a bed in Tergnier the previous day, hence having to carry on to the campsite in La Fère, and eating up a few miles. But it remained a long and tough stage. It didn’t help that some French loggers had built (indeed and were still building when I arrived) a rather large, and brand new log pile over one of my turnings in the woods!
I was, however, helped by the fact that the scenery was very pleasant, and to me seemed to be the first time that I felt as though I really couldn’t be in England. The forest of Saint Gobain, pasted over rows of neatly packed, curving ridges, and set in an ever less chalky, and more loamy soil, feels almost ineffably French. Much of the day was spent walking in the forest, through sunlight, rain and hail. It was slow, and increasingly painful, and all too tempting to rest. Catching sight of the hill of Laon, and the towers of the cathedral set at its top, was a major moral boost. I limped into the lower town, and managed to pull myself up the pedestrian ramps with the walking stick, having to pause regularly on the way up, not least to admire the view; a view that meant a lot to me, as it stretched out to the North-West, over all the fields and forests I’d passed through over the previous days. At last, I made it to the cathedral at the top of the hill.
Individual context has quite a significant bearing on how one experiences a place like the Cathedral at Laon. That this would be different for me on a pilgrimage, than as a tourist, had not occurred to me until I arrived in Laon.
Naturally, there is the physical beauty of the Cathedral, one of the finest examples of early gothic architecture remaining in the world. Inside, the clustered pillars of coppiced stone shoot skywards, splitting, and arching over in a glorious vaulted canopy. And outside, somehow the stone seems to cascade back down in frozen flows from the towers, the excessive ornamentation and detail blurred into turbulence from a hundred feet below. Then there are the stained glass windows, the fluttering of banners outside, oh, and the music.
But for the pilgrim, there is perhaps something else. There is the symbolic beauty of the Cathedral as the finishing point for the day, and a hard earned one at that. There is the awe of arriving at such a beautiful place at the point of utter exhaustion, and entirely filthy (in my case, without a shower for two days), and having the ability to do nothing but sit among the groves of ancient stone, and to ponder their eight hundred year history. I stayed at the Cathedral until close, by which point I had regained enough strength to walk down the street to the house of Mme Tordeux, my host for the night. The time spent in the Cathedral was very moving indeed.
Mme Tordeux was a fantastic host. After meeting her, and being introduced to the three wild boar heads on her walls (she reckons she’s shot about sixty over the course of her life), I showered, cleaned myself up, and we sat down for dinner, and some fantastic conversation (including but not limited to her memories of the Nazi Officers during the WWII occupation of France, the Chinese space agency, her time at school in England and the Royal Family). I was sorry to leave the next morning.
Thursday was the first rest day I’d taken since setting off on this journey. Laon seemed a perfect place for a day off, given the city’s historical prestige. But really, the main purpose was to rest the feet a tad, and to finish off a draft of a paper, as a little add on for the (almost finished) engineering degree. I did take the time though to visit the cathedral once more, to walk around the ancient city walls, and meander a little through the old streets of Laon. After that, I checked into what I imagine is the French equivalent of a Travelodge, and got to work.
I rose early today for a very long hike, to a small town (with a campsite) about halfway to Reims. I’m still working on the pronunciation of Reims. I hope I’ve got the hang of it before arriving tomorrow, which is the current plan, but my phone call ahead for accommodation doesn’t bode well on that front! I think I’ve walked about 43 kilometers today, most in drizzle, and much in torrential rain. It’s been tough, despite yesterday’s rest. But I’m looking forward to Reims tomorrow, and the champagne region to come.