Via Podiensis, Part IX -- Olio

"When you travel, you experience, in a very practical way, the act of rebirth. You confront completely new situations, the day passes more slowly, and on most journeys you don't even understand the language the people speak. So you are like a child just out of the womb. You begin to attach much more importance to the things around you because your survival depends upon them. You begin to be more accessible to others because they may be able to help you in difficult situations. And you accept any small favor from the gods with great delight, as if it were an episode you would remember for the rest of your life.

   "At the same time, since all things are new, you see only the beauty in them, and you feel happy to be alive."   (Paulo Coelho)

"What a joy walking is. All the cares of life, all the hopeless, inept fuckwits that God has strewn along the (dandd) Highway of Life, suddenly seem far away and harmless, and the world becomes tranquil and welcoming and good."  (Bill Bryson)

I'm dyspeptic enough that I lean toward Bryson, but take your pick -- they are saying the same thing. 

ANIMALS: While we saw more wild animals than we did in Spain, we were again surprised at how few we saw. We saw a couple of deer, a ton of squirrels, a dead badger and a dead wild pig, and one giant snake (not a python giant, but far too giant and too alive for dw -- perhaps a yard long). We saw a group of five wild pigs that ran across the road and several orange slugs. In the region of miles of corn, we didn't so much see as hear mourning doves. They sounded like flocks of owls with laryngitis except they didn't do anything to thin out the squirrels (rodents in a nice suit) -- so we got annoyed by the doves hoo-hoo-hooing all the time. The area restaurants and gites need to feature squab on their menus.

   Five miles past Miramont we saw a giant frog sitting in the road. I pushed it with one of my sticks but it wouldn't move so I used both to lift and roll it off the road lest it become a frog pate'. I asked dw if she wanted to kiss it to see what would happen. No words, but I got a grim glare in response. (dw loathes frogs). But after all, why would she kiss a frog when she already has a prince charming (I modestly admit).

   The first day, only a few miles from Le Puy, we passed a field with a herd of Charolais cows. The bull with great bulging muscles, looking like he really hit the steroids, but after that the cows were the normal brown cows or black and white cows. Mild and docile looking, except all cows are land sharks in cow clothing -- each year cows slay 20 times more people than do sharks. And those black and white cows? Orcas! When you're walking the Camino you need to be careful around the predator cows.

   Donkeys and more donkeys. Just before Conques, the minute we got near one donkey it started braying as loud as ever he could. It was amazing how loud he was. He quieted down when we talked to him. True story -- the donkey just wanted to be acknowledged. I grabbed a handful of lush grass to give to him. He didn't want the grass, he just wanted conversation.  After that, I would carry an apple or two to give to the donkeys. They (and there were a lot of them) would almost always walk up to their fence for a short, friendly chat. Once I gave one a handful of peanuts -- it ate one and shied away (What the hell is that?) --- So I tossed them on the ground as I didn't want to eat donkey slobber peanuts. It then decided they were actually good, so it searched out every nut. We also passed a few ponies, but they were definitely outnumbered by the donkeys.
   The cow dogs were usually border collies, but there weren't nearly as many cow dogs as we saw in Spain. As we neared the mountains more Great Pyrenees dogs showed up, but we didn't get to meet Django.

MONUMENTS: On a sad note, each village and town has a monument to casualties of war, originally for WWI with added plaques for WWII, Indo-China and Algeria. It is difficult to imagine the devastation WWI, in particular, caused. One village, Sauliac, was representative: The village had about 25 houses and looked like it was a similar size in 1914. The monument had a list of 14 names for WWI, including three sets of brothers. Never forget -- engraved in bronze and stone. Sad beyond words.

CULTURAL, GREAT AND SMALL: Air kisses. We didn't understand the protocol. It goes Left, or Left/Right, or occasionally Left/Right/Left. Who determines what? If you go for the LRL, and the other just goes for LR, you're liable to clash glasses or noses.  The couple of times we got involved, we each  went for the LR, and pulled away, hoping we didn't offend.
    Holes in the sidewalk: They aren't as frequent as they are in Spain, but we think the descending stairs that start in the middle of the sidewalk, with no warning marks or railings are odd indeed. Perhaps they are Darwinian, designed to thin out people who walk around staring at their iphones.

    Nearly every gite would greet new arrivals with a glass or two of verveina (verbena) -- the syrup mixed with cool water. Refreshing every time and a civilized way to end a day of walking, whether the walk was easy or difficult.

SOME ART: The religious works were expected, the other works we saw, such as the cats around La Romieu, or the modern nudes at Lazerte we didn't expect. Before during and after the town, Saugues,  a large collection of chain-saw sculptures were displayed along the road. With not a single Smokey The Bear, or Bigfoot among them.
    Before Lazerte the trail passed a field (1/4 acre) with a series of junk sculptures. We couldn't tell if they were a trenchant comment on modern art, or an example of outsider art -- we opted for outsider art, but it was a close call. (the field also had a clearly neglected, derelict Italian plum tree with perfectly ripe fruit -- we indulged) -- (we picked fruit or berries only if we were completely confident the owners wouldn't care)
    There were many other examples, great and small scattered along the route. And, of course, architecture: buildings major and minor with details worth seeking out. (photo: Lectoure)

MUSIC: A minor part of the walk. I've mentioned the organ recital in Conques, but otherwise there wasn't much. Even Barcelona was lacking. We walked up and down La Rambla but there were very few buskers and the ones there weren't very good. One guy in Parc Guell was killing it with a dobro -- easily good enough to mask his so-so singing.  youtube.com/watch?v=tB5_XbNA6QI

Finally, for anyone accessing this blog from Portland Chapter (APOC), or Way of St James-Via Podiensis-Chemin du Puy-en-Velay, I will no longer post a notice of new entries. I'm thankful for those of you who have read this, but unless or until dw and I walk another Camino, and I write about it, I feel it would be inappropriate to post my subsequent blogs on a Camino Facebook. I will continue to post on my Facebook and Twitter sites. Thanks again.

A POEM: This Is Just To Say (William Carlos Williams)

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold.

TODAY'S BOOK: Lives Of The Artists, Volume I (Giorgio Vasari)  It's dull in spots, but over all a very good read. Popular for 500 years, the book concerns the artists Giotto through Raphael -- the big names in Renaissance art (Vasari coined the word "Renaissance") -- and is the primary source for those artists. Vasari's entire Lives Of The Artists covers 150 different artists, most of whom I've never heard of and will never read about. 

TODAY'S WORDS: In honor of our braying friends: Dapple, Sancho Panza's donkey (Don Quixote, Cervantes) and Modestine, Robert Louis Stevenson's donkey in (Travels With A Donkey) (His walk through part of SE France.)

And so it goes. DJA

Via Podiensis, Part VIII, Finisterra

The bus ride from St Jean Pied-de-Port to Bayonne was only a couple of hours, which meant waiting in Bayonne for the train: a wait long enough to breed impatience, but not long enough to explore the town. Interestingly, the station had one unisex toilet where someone had died and fell against the door. The "occupied" sign was lit and the door locked for the two plus hours we were there. Fortunately there was a toilet a block away that, between each visit, was "cleaned and sanitized" with some sort of spray arrangement: it was clean and sanitized, but also dripping wet -- a fair exchange we thought.
    While sitting in the station we were entertained for a time by a pigeon. It flew in, crash landed, sort of squatted, hunkered down and wobbled around. I called it stumpy, dw called it low-rider. We decided it had gnawed off both feet in hopes of getting sympathy handouts.

We had a layover in Irun, Spain, that was long enough to explore the town. Irun was established in Roman times, but it really doesn't have an old section. It does have a totally spectacular church which was so nondescript on the outside we almost didn't go in. Inside, the retablo was 60 feet high and 40 feet wide, gilded, with life sized statues and extensive carvings and inset paintings. A wide, ornately carved stone canopy over the baptismal font, and a large very good easel painting. (I couldn't read the signature -- probably no one famous -- but it was very good, and a treat compared to the usual painted dreck) And finally, a statue of a plaintive begging altar-boy --- almost sappy enough to discourage  our usual contribution toward building up-keep.

Overnight on the train was unpleasant but when we got to Santiago, we bought a few groceries, collected a stamp on our credentials, and started walking without a thought of staying the night. We were ready to move on.

The walk to Fisterra (Fisterra in Galicia, Finisterra everywhere else) is through a mountainous area with rock outcroppings, farms, forests, meadows and streams big and little --- it's a consistently attractive trail.

    Leading to one of the early villages, Ponte Maceira, we crossed a bridge downstream of a weir, and attached to the weir were three grist mills, each mill nearly intact. The canals for the mills were flowing -- one mill had 5 grist stones, another 4, and the third had 3. With drive posts and waterwheels, the mills could be used again. The mills were the most complete of any we saw both in France and Spain -- a view of a process unchanged for more than a thousand years.

    Around Maronas, according to the guide book, we passed a site of pre-historic dolmans. All well and good, but there were no directional signs for them and the guide book didn't say where they actually were, other than to note that they were on private land, so reclose gates, don't litter, be courteous, etc. After more than a month of walking up and down hills we were certainly fit enough, but we also were certainly getting a snoot full of hills so we didn't feel like climbing another steep hill only to wander around looking for some rocks, which probably just looked like rocks. So we didn't see the dolmans.
    However, at the same place we preceded one herd of cattle, and then followed another herd of cattle --- both being moved to new pastures --- it wasn't as historic as the dolmans, but it certainly was more aromatic. 

At one point we met Meg from Seattle (only the second American we met on the trail -- We met many other nationalities, and quite a few Canadians, but only two Americans) We walked at nearly the same pace so we met several times along the trail; met in Fisterra, and finally, in Santiago where we shared a bottle of wine and a long conversation. Remarkably for me, Meg was familiar with Orick, a small logging town in Northern California where I had lived for three years over fifty years ago. When my family lived there, Orick had a population of 600, had ten taverns, and the only entertainment was the Friday/Saturday night tavern fights. The loggers would go to the taverns to fight, and everyone else would go to watch. Good Times. (In truth, I was a timorous grade-schooler; I wasn't actually involved with the entertainment) On a drive down the California coast two years ago, we stopped in Orick and spent five minutes seeing the sights.  It seems to be unchanged, except fewer people and fewer taverns --- still little known and less remembered. 

In the evening at the albergue Casa Riamonte, we met two young Lithuanians. One was limping along with a very sore leg, as just before they started the walk he had several screws removed from his lower leg and ankle (a previous injury) Being made of steel, as many young people are, he thought it was a good idea to start regardless of his recent surgery. They had little money as an earlier ATM hadn't worked but when we caught up with them in the morning, they refused our offer to buy them breakfast (they did accept coffee) Very pleasant guys, and we greatly enjoyed talking with them.  (we saw them later in a larger town -- they did find a working ATM)

The previous year, we had walked from St. Jean Pied-de-Port to Santiago, but because of time constraints we didn't continue on to Fisterra. This year we finished the additional 60 miles and we were very happy we did: About 50 miles of walking beyond Santiago you catch a brief glimpse of the Atlantic (dw spotted it first), and then two hundred yards farther on, the bay that Fisterra faces is revealed, and beyond that the Atlantic --- it truly is a thrill. We felt it was a thrill almost equal to entering Santiago itself. After doing the walk, dealing with sore legs and feet, tiredness and the general travails of walking over 500 miles, seeing the ocean gives a sense of total completion. We were very glad we walked to:  The End of The World.  youtube.com/watch?v=WM7FoFej478

Only 7K from Fisterra we passed a hotel/restaurant: Hotel Estorde. dw was exhausted and didn't want to continue so I suggested we ask about a room even though the place looked to be way over our budget. We got very lucky. It was empty, or nearly so, and they gave us a room for only  40E --- over our budget, but manageable and a spectacular deal. A three-star hotel with ocean view, a room that merited the three stars, and a short walk along the beach for a source of Blue Bunny ice cream bars and a beer or two. It was so nice we didn't worry about the weather forecast that predicted a severe storm for the next day. 

    As forecast, the weather turned and the night was very stormy. In the morning we started late (9 or so), since there wasn't much of a hurry. The storm had largely abated by then: rain and wind, but it wasn't too bad, except when we crested one ridge and walked along the summit. The storm came back with a bang: very heavy rain and wind so strong it was very difficult to walk. dw used me as a wind break -- fair enough as the wind might have knocked me down but nothing less than a hurricane would actually blow me away.  After 45 minutes it again abated, and when we finally walked the last kilometer into town the storm was over.

Fisterra (Finisterra), The End Of The World in Roman times -- is a pleasant fishing town. We indulged in a couple of good meals, looked at the sights, unsuccessfully shopped for souvenirs, and walked to The Lighthouse At The End Of The World.
   

We were lucky with our walk to the lighthouse, as we got a day and a half without rain. It was a pleasant walk along a cliff side road with light traffic. The wide shoulder was comfortable walking and had great views across the bay lined with several villages, and back towards Fisterra. The lighthouse itself is a large square building with a short round tower barely higher than the building, rather than a traditional tall tower. It sits on a point of a steep two hundred foot cliff that falls to the ocean without even a narrow beach.  In the building was a restaurant/hotel that seemed to be permanently closed and two hundred yards back of the lighthouse is a gift/snack shop, not as tacky as many. In short, it's unremarkable but pleasant and sitting at the edge of the cliff you do have the sense that there's only ocean beyond, that you are at the end of the earth.

    Tradition has it, that when you get to the point, you burn your old clothes and any extra stuff --- start anew with your life. We didn't have anything to burn. We were going to write some things on a piece of paper and burn that, but we didn't bother --- largely because we forgot to bring matches. We thought there would be a special designated burn spot, but people just light things wherever they want. It wasn't awful with half-burned debris so there must be some sort of burned trash patrol.

The next day the rain had returned and we took a bus back to Santiago. We looked for souvenirs but had no luck. We can deal with over-priced, or cheap, or tacky, or ugly, but not all at once. We visited some of the sites we had seen before, including the good Modern Art Museum (where we staged our own small performance art piece).

We had to leave a day before we intended, as we got the last two train seats -- the last seats for nearly a week -- back to Barcelona. And Barcelona is a wonderful city. The architecture is like nothing found anywhere else:  It extends from bits of ancient Roman to Medieval, Gothic, Renaissance, Neo-Gothic, Deco, Beaux-Arts, Art-Nouveau, Moderne, and Modern. And most notably: Gaudi and his few disciples. It's a rare treat to just wander around and look at the buildings. And a fitting end for our journey. (Barcelona is more noted for the older styles, but it has a share of modern: A giant pickle, a multi-story museum with a radical overhang, and a giant flea market -- the underside of the roof is a giant mirror)

(I'll write one more entry about the Via Podiensis)

BOOK OF THE DAY: The Satyricon (Petronius) and The Apocolocyntosis (Seneca) I read these when I was young, but there's a lot more buggery going on in this edition (Penguin, J.P. Sullivan translation) than I remembered. I'm sure what I read many years ago was a Bowdlerized version. This translation has a modern flavor (none of that "thee" and "thou" and "forsooth" stuff) and is pretty amusing. Certainly not a must read, but it is entertaining.

POEM FOR THE DAY:

It comes out every summer,
     but doesn't tell anyone it's there.
Every time I catch one I treat it with care.
It's a beautiful butterfly, flying so high --
It's just wonderful to see, and that's no lie.
All you see is yellow and red
   just flying over your head;
It makes the world a beautiful place;
   makes you feel safe.
The way butterflies fly over your head
     makes you feel you're as beautiful as a butterfly.
             --- Aphinity Jumping Bull (age 13) ---

But Petronius has a comment about poets:
   "Some of the people walking about in the colonnades interrupted Eumolpus' (poetic) recitation with a shower of stones. Being familiar with this sort of appreciation of his genius, he covered his head and fled from the sanctuary. I was nervous myself in case they should call me a poet too. So I followed his fleeing figure, (and stopped only when) we were out of range."

And so it goes. DJA

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