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