Via Podiensis, Part VII

For two days we walked through endless fields of corn. A large area has been turned into industrial farming, corn planted field edge to field edge, trees removed, family farms torn down -- probably very efficient, but certainly the most boring part of the entire walk. We're not nearly as high as an elephants eye so we could see ---- corn, more corn, and corn again ---- on the other hand, it was surely convenient when we needed to take a whiz. ---- three steps off the path and privacy.

On occasion we entertained ourselves by memorizing poems. dw learned "Stopping By A Wood On A Snowy Evening" and "The Road Not Taken" -- both by Robert Frost. I also did those, which was easy for me as I largely remembered them from many years ago. My big one was memorizing "The Shooting Of Dan McGrew" by Robert Service. It's much longer, and I was pleased that I could learn it. Back in my theater days memorizing was usually easy, but I didn't know if I could still do it. Every few days we would recite to each other --- a lot of reciting went on during the acres of corn. 

At the bottom of a hill as we neared Arthez-de-Bearn sat a small barn with an arched double doorway; the second we saw it we both said: "There's a horse's ass in that barn!" which was all we could see of the horse. Great minds think alike, and in truth, the rest of the horse may, or may not, have been in the barn. Like Schrodinger's Cat -- neither alive nor dead. It would have been remarkable mounted on a living room wall. 

A (nameless) gite we stayed in was very nice and featured another pig (not a truffle pig) which had it's own inside bed and blanket. The gite had other good features, including a dog whose headless stuffed bear was his throw toy (he had no interest in the head). But it finally left a bad taste in our mouths because of a financial mix-up which didn't seem to be a misunderstanding. (One lemon out of a thousand miles across France and Spain is a very good average) Also at the gite were an Aussie couple, Nick and Helen; the only American we met on the trail, Alan; and a German, Herman. Alan at one point was a TV person (announcer? personality?) here in Portland -- I might have vaguely remembered him. The four had met on the trail, joined up, and had been walking together for some weeks. A pleasant group we met repeatedly for the last few days.

For several days and in mile long sections along the path, a government (local? national?) had planted six to eight foot tall fruit trees, the varieties sampled from an "ancient muse" , in an effort to save the antique varieties, and perhaps return some of them to favor. It was an extensive effort and much to be applauded. dw asked me: "How many of these kinds did you grow up with?"

Both of us, as we neared St. Jean Pied-de-Port were accumulating various aches and pains. As in Spain, dw's feet were bothering her -- only an occasional minor blister, but definite pains in her least toes (dw: "I repeat: I have little toes, not least toes"). And definite knee pain on the down hills. I was having occasional foot pain (probably gout related) and as in Spain my hernia was acting up (brought on, again, by an errant sneeze). It was mostly a problem on up-hills or when I sneezed or coughed. The sneeze and cough I could handle with a little dance step (knee sharply up and crossed over) or --- when hill climbing --- shoving my hand in my pants so it looked like I was fondling myself. --- Discretion recommended.

At St. Jean de Vieux, a few days from St. Jean Pied-de-Port we stayed in the same gite as Robert (unplanned). We had a pleasant farewell dinner together. As usual he walked faster than we did, and we planned to stop short of St. Jean so we could arrive in the morning (easier to find lodging). We also wanted to spend time exploring the town, as we didn't take time to explore on our first visit.

The night before St Jean Pied-de-Port, I jumped the gun and ordered "dos cervazas, but it worked and we were sitting outside a bar having a Basque beer ("Akerbeltz" -- except the "A" has a pair of horns on top) -- a tasty amber ale,  when my heart skipped a beat: A restored Triumph TR3 pulled in -- just like the one I used to own. (OK, it was in a lot better shape than mine. And unlike mine it hadn't ended up as a Yule Log) I really liked that car.  -- The walk was a partial reprise of my automobile life: two weeks earlier we were passed by a '64 VW van, just like one I owned -- even the same color. It was odd seeing them, as both were (even new) a poor excuse for a car -- but wildly fun in vastly different ways.  

St. Jean is small (1400 people -- but doubtless more in the surrounding area) but it's a very busy village: crowded with tourists, both French and pelerins (walkers). In addition to street parking, there are parking lots with room for 1000 cars and in one spot I counted 5 tour buses. And, it's a farming community: during our stay I counted (doubtless missing many) 20 giant tractors pulling giant wagons full of newly chopped silage. It's a medieval town, with a nice old section, a largely intact bastille, and mostly intact town walls. It's easy to see why it's a popular French tourist destination.

     We spent a day exploring and being experienced old hands on the Camino. When we were at the pilgrims office, and at the more general tourist information office we were asked and gave advice and reassurances to new pilgrims, and as we were leaving we gave directions to two lost pilgrims -- directing them to the start of the Napoleon route. We were duly modest with advice and directions, but it was a very nice ego boost. 

Because of dw's feet (and time) we decided against again crossing the Pyrenees, instead we traveled (via bus and train) to Santiago de Compostela for the last of this trek: Santiago to Finisterra.

Since school was in session, and it wasn't the vacation season, the walkers and tourists definitely skewed toward older. In the bus station I counted 11 guys (including me) and all of us had gray hair -- and 6 of us had a goatee of some sort. The old guy uniform, and I think the goatee is to hide our jowls. 

 YOU THOUGHT YOU WERE DYSPEPTIC:  "The heart of a man is hollow and full of ordure." Pascal -- "Pensees"

BOOK OF THE WEEK:  SPQR -- A History of Ancient Rome (Mary Beard) -- I don't suppose anyone outside of college really needs to read another history of Rome, but this book is excellent. Very well written, with unexpected details (500 BCE they had a "law" on how to deal with a tree overhanging a neighbor's property -- trim it back -- )  With it's length (580 pages) and subject I was reminded of the Duke of Gloucester to Edward Gibbon, regarding the publication of Vol. I, The Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire: "Another damn'd thick, square book! Always scribble, scribble, scribble -- Eh, Mr. Gibbon."

WORD OF THE DAY:  Snath -- the wooden handle of a scythe.

And so it goes.  DJA

Via Podiensis, Part VI

La Romieu -- we arrived at this village largely by accident. Our trip planner (dw) made a reservation in the wrong town. The small detour added three or four Ks over two days; we came to La Romieu earlier than we wanted; we came to the next stop later than we wanted. But the village proved to be worth the mistake.
   (dw made all of the phone reservations, and did much of the talking as she got amazing mileage out of her high school French, but still, there were large possibilities for error.  -- I, on the other hand, don't speak a word of French -- which is not actually true as I can say bonjour, merci, and quiche Lorraine -- and not one word is useful in reserving a room.)

But the error turned out well, as La Romieu is an attractive little village with a giant church (Collegiate Church) -- the largest on the Camino in relation to the size of the village. Built between 1312 and 1318 by Armaud d'Aux de Lescout who was tight with the Pope, Clement V.  Armaud was in a hurry, so he used slave labor (technically prisoners of the Pope and others -- potato, tomato) and got the giant church along with outbuildings built in a very short time. The Revolution did a fair amount of damage, but some of the original painting (tempera, fresco) still remains. And best of all, when you visit the building you're given a sheet of paper explaining everything and left to wander around as you will --- including climbing to the top of one of the two towers (the bell tower is closed as  the town got tired of tourists bonging the bells) and walking on the top of the vaulted ceiling. (the actual tiled roof is elevated above the vaults) The stairs you can climb are a very tight spiral -- so tight my shoulders nearly touched both sides -- with each step two inches wide in the center, eight inches wide on the outside, and with a ten inch rise -- the stairs definitely aren't built to code. One thin iron railing. The tower is 150 feet high -- the potential for an accident is large. If you tripped and fell, you'd roll to the bottom, and if the fall didn't kill you, you certainly would get dizzy. It was all great fun.

The town has many life sized statues of cats, in honor of "Angeline and her cats." Angeline was a little girl whose cats saved the town during the Middle Ages. Nowhere in the town did we see how the cats actually did their great feat. Later I read that Angeline was an orphan who loved her cats, but during a great famine the village started dining on fricassee ala chat until the cats were all gone except for two kittens Angeline had hidden away. After three years, the famine eased, but the town was overrun by rats who ate the crops and the famine threatened to return -- but Angeline's two cats (after three years!) were a multitude, a great clowder of cats, and when released, they ate all the rats (a chat fricassee ala rat), saving the town.

One of the gates in the town wall looked like it was sporting damage from a centuries ago cannon ball, as well as smaller pits from musket shots. The cats could do little to defend the town from shot and powder, and besides they'd done enough already.

Two days later, we stayed at Larressingle where for the first time we could see the Pyrenees (still a hundred miles away) Larressingle is a remarkably intact medieval fortified village -- even the moat is intact (although not filled with water) It only has ten or so occupied houses and a couple of shops. In the 1930s someone organized a committee of Americans from Boston who raised money and restored and preserved the town. A plaque commemorates the event,  and the tourist office also makes prominent notice of it.

Later, in Condom, we again met Robert. He had been ahead of us, but had lost a day looking for new shoes, as his were completely worn out. He had no luck. He didn't strike me as having boat feet, but I guess they were too much for rural France. (not entirely appropriate: youtube.com/watch?v=DYomv4c7BkU) Condom is another lovely town (lovely towns are thick on the ground in rural France) and had a great statue of the Three Musketeers +1 (D'Artagnan, the hero, was from this region: Gascony) It was tempting, but I didn't do the common pose of standing with them, my walking stick a sword replacement.

A few days later, we again met Robert (who again was faster) only this time he had missed the trail, wandered around lost, in a minor way, until he heard us yakking about something, followed the sound and again gained the trail. We were happy to do the aural service.

We were having lunch at the church Eglise de l'Hospital. Before we ate the last of the very tasty farmers market Basque cheese, I pared off the crusty looking rind (leaving as much cheese as possible). I commented: "This is probably fine to eat, but the aesthetics troubles me." dw enjoyed the comment, and later, talking about labeling things, said: "The aesthetics appeals to me."
   And for the rest of the day the aesthetics of things were either appealing, or troubling. For example, the aesthetics of the easel paintings in the churches were usually troubling -- Raphael didn't do much work around the region. 

Regarding appealing aesthetics: we stopped at the church in Aire-Sur L'Adour -- it is completely restored and is absolutely stunning. The interior stone work is plastered over and painted with splendid detail. The statuary, easel paintings and etc. were several cuts above the average. It is truly beautiful. It's what all the churches and chapels along this trail once looked like -- four or five hundred years ago. As we were leaving, I was standing in front looking up at the tympanum when this small dark thing fell down and hit me on the forehead. I asked dw: "Do I have bird shit on my forehead?" and she allowed as how I did indeed. With a couple of tissues and water I cleaned it off (God's punishment for being a heathen?) At least it was a small, fairly dry blob and not a great sloppy splat like seagulls put out. 

FACTOID FOR TODAY: The leaf-rolling caterpillar, about an inch long, is able to shoot its poop as much as two feet. Scaling up, a six-foot human (such as myself) -- with similar powers -- could fire his stern gun and lob a log 150 feet.

BOOKS FOR TODAY: Void Moon (Michael Connelly) Not my usual thing, a crime thriller, but it was good. As I usually do with mysteries or thrillers, I lost patience and skipped part of it (in particular the details about spy cameras, radio tracking devices, etc.) but over all I thought it was worth the read. And Warped Passages (Lisa Randall) -- Modern physics. As far as I can tell Randall knows her business and writes very well and very clearly. All about multiple dimensions and quantum mechanics and so on. She largely passes on the math of it all, which makes for an easier read.

JOKES FOR TODAY:   The last time I was in jail, I got badly beaten up ----  I think my family takes Monopoly way too seriously.

My friend RD told me he is color blind and was in high school before he found out --- he said it hit him like a bolt out of the green. 

and so it goes DJA