Distance Walked: 537 miles
Current No. Blisters: 1
It’s now been just over a month since I started this journey, all the way back in Sussex. That idea is somewhat incredible to me; only a month! At present, drinking a cup of tea, in Gy, on the approach to Besançon, and after that, will be pushing closer to the Swiss border.
I can’t write another one of these blog post updates without mentioning the rather touching, and seemingly endless generosity of the French people who host pilgrims at their homes. The last stretch of walk has been through some remarkably out-of-the-way places, with days between shops, and not a campsite in sight. So, I’ve been leaning more than usual on the network of Pilgrim hosts. The hosts are often ex-pilgrims, people who would like to go on a pilgrimage when they have the time, or indeed just good people, who find it “more interesting to have pilgrims over for dinner, than to watch TV”. Often, they cook a fantastic meal (three courses seems to be the norm – all homecooked, and often home grown as well) and best of all, they put up with the horrific French, and indeed charades, I offer for conversation. They are all wonderful people, and you never know quite what to expect.
The smaller network of Pilgrim Hostels has also been fantastic, particularly in offering cheap spots in the big towns, with enough facilities to cook (actually quite relaxing after a long day’s walk). The week began at one of these hostels, in Bar-sur-Aube, with the first day ending at the small village of Cirfontaines-en-Azois, after a semi-painful introduction to the growing hills of the region. The village had no services, except a bread vending machine.
It was something of a surprise to arrive in Marac the next day, late, tired, and starving, and indeed expecting to camp in someone’s back garden, to be told the weather for the night was too bad, and that instead there was a bed inside for me. Indeed, a bed in a house founded by three pilgrims 800 years ago, and also owned and run by the Knights Templar, for a time. It was quite surreal to sip a cup of Earl Grey and rest for a while in that place, before eating the best part of a packet of biscuits, and then making dinner. I could tell the chap continuing the long pilgrim tradition of the house knew the needs of a pilgrim, because he had furnished the room with biscuits, and other foods suitably ranked at as least as low as a “D”, and many at an “E” on the French government “nutri-score” system. The box of biscuits made for fantastic catching up after a non-existent lunch.
Sometimes, it is also easy to tell when the host has been a pilgrim or not, by tokens they give in the morning, after the stay. The best things to take from such a night are pictures, memories, and indeed recipes. They weigh nothing, and mean everything. Tokens, ranging from ointment to painted pebbles, whilst touching, begin to weigh a lot when added up. Not exactly ideal for the pilgrim, who tends to go to great lengths to minimise weight.
After the night in Marac, it was a quick walk to Langres (twinned with Beaconsfield), up the old medieval hill, and into the nearest boulangerie, for a spot of flan. I’ve really developed a liking for the French flan; in essence a barely-sweet baked custard tart. The best so far had a thin, visually imperceptible layer of apricot jam on top, adding a wonderful hit of sweetness and flavour, without compromising the simple, almost savoury, beauty of the basic flan. Anyhow, the cathedral of Langres is beautiful, both inside and out; indeed, I had the privilege of viewing it from the window of my room at the nearby Presbytère for the following night. I drifted to sleep after a generous sampling of Bourgogne wine, grown in the next region over from the current “Grand-Est” region: the “Bourgogne-Franche-Comté” region (which sounds to me more like a nice end to a meal). Whilst in Langres, there was also a bit of time for sightseeing, which I mostly spent on a leisurely, rucksack-free amble around the ancient walls.
Since then, I’ve been working my way southwest, around the reservoirs, hills and forests of the region, giving my knees a bit of training, before I face the Jura Mountains, down on the Swiss border, and then indeed the Alps. The hot weather finally arrived on Wednesday, after weeks of rather freezing winds from the South. This opened up the opportunity for a little camping again, something I’ve been keen to avoid since a cold and wet night in Chalon-en-Champagne. I arrived at the campsite in Chalindry, however, in fantastic sun on Wednesday afternoon – sufficient sun to dry out the tent (still wet from Chalon…) in barely half an hour. I revived myself with a litre of beer, and set down, firstly to some tenting, and secondly to some Frenching. The latter was accomplished by tackling two long-standing mysteries in one meal at the nearby restaurant. Firstly, the wonderful Pastis de Marseille aperitif, and secondly, the elusive and infamous andouilette intestine sausage.
Naturally, the good weather had turned on its heels by the next morning, and the tent deconstruction took place in the pouring rain. I would have waited a while for things to calm down, but the forecast was solid rain, until late in the evening. For once the forecast was right, and it was a really rather miserable day of trekking through the usual little villages, soaked to the core with cold rainwater. I stopped once at a wash-house, and once at a bus stop. No other shelter was available, and all the churches were locked. I arrived in Dampierre-sur-Salon (the Salon being the river I’d been following south-west for a few days), absolutely freezing. It took a good few hours, some food, and a hot shower to restore me to anywhere near comfort.
Today was a rather comfortable, if long walk, starting at the fantastic boulangerie in Dampierre (beginning the day with warm baguettes, and croissants), and ending thirty kilometers further towards Rome, at Gy at six thirty this evening. I hope to be in Besançon tomorrow, and by the time I post the next update, I should have crossed the border into Switzerland.
One other point of interest for this week, has been passing the 1000 km mark – according to the guidebook, at least. The numbers I put at the top of this post come from GPS data, which has inherant aliasing issues, so is definitely an underestimate.
Oh, and one last note, before I really must go and make some dinner: a great number of the signs in the French villages are actually upside down. I’m assuming this is the French sense of humour, but maybe there is a genuine reason…
