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

Via Podiensis, Part V

dw: "I want some coffee."
me: "The next place is only a mile or so away."
dw: "It's more than two."
me: "It was less than two at the last sign."
dw: "It was 2.4K -- that's 14 miles in real terms."
me: "Well, both numbers do have a four in them."
dw: "I'm tired and my math skills are slipping."
    
Later we took to carrying single serving packets of instant coffee -- not ideal but far better than no coffee at all. Unlike Spain, in France we would often go an entire day without finding a place for a coffee break. Doubtless it was a great deprivation.

After Pasturat, we took another abandoned RR shortcut. And it proved to be a shortcut, even though it started badly and then got worse. The shortcut started through a curved tunnel, that was long enough that we couldn't see the end, and not seeing a light at the end of the tunnel might have been a hint. After the tunnel, the track continued between ever deepening stone faced walls and ever more dense brush until it became impassable. Fortunately, an iron ladder was fixed to the wall near where we were stopped so we didn't have to backtrack. We topped out on a road that passed a farmhouse with large interesting sculptures (camel, spider) made of steel rod. The fat surly artist standing in the yard grudgingly admitted they were his work, told us the trail was just down the road, and definitely indicated he was out of friendly for the day.
     After several miles on a road, we again tried the RR track, and for two miles it went well. Then the brush again thickened and increasingly, trees had fallen across the track (the result of a widespread, violent storm two weeks previous) We had to remove our packs and pass them to each other to get through in places, and a couple of times we needed to help each other to get through -- it was a real mess but we didn't want to turn back, because ---- two miles. Eventually we made the goal, which was another RR bridge over the river Lot and which represented another shortcut of three miles. Time-wise, and effort-wise we might not have gained anything, but it was an interesting day.

In Cahors dw hadn't been able to find us a place to stay, so we went to the tourist office. The poor young woman in the office took nearly an hour trying to find us a gite. In the end we settled for one a half mile out of town and up a steep hill -- not what we wanted -- but it proved to be a fine choice: The owners (an older couple -- probably my age, alas) were just renting out an extra bedroom. When we got there, they asked us to be sure and not let their dog out of the yard, nor into the house. I asked what kind of dog is it, and the man answered: "A good dog." which, after all, is the best kind of dog. We had breakfast in the morning, the owners joined us and we had a very nice conversation, along with coffee and entirely homemade toast and jam. It was all so pleasant we left later than usual.

A couple of days later, in Latastide-Marnhac, we passed an elementary school:  It was recess time and for a few moments some of the kids were singing: "Alouette, Alouette, gentile Alouette. Alouette je te plumerai ---" So I wondered: does every elementary in the western world sing that? I certainly did and so did dw.

Our gite that evening, at Trigodina, featured a truffle pig. A master of disguise, the pig looked like a normal gray pot-bellied pig, but in fact it was an actual truffle pig. The owner had a picture of a softball sized truffle the pig had found. I guess the pig won't be eaten any time soon, or at least not all at once. The gite also had a golden retriever who didn't seem to be interested in truffles but who was very good at mooching treats and ear scratches.

The trail continued to be very difficult in places. One steep section, leading to Lazerte, even had a heavy (one inch) rope tied to trees and extending for a hundred yards to be used as a hand rail -- wet and muddy the section would have been nearly impassable. The descent two hundred yards farther on, was equally steep.

Lazerte is another "Most Beautiful" hill-top village. We had a pint of amber ale (English pub, English owner, and English ale -- except served cold) I paid for the beer when I ordered it and then carried it outside where we were sitting. Later, dw went to the loo and after, offered to pay. The bartender said I'd already paid, but (with a smile) "I'd collect again, but you two talked with each other. Most couples don't." -- chuckles all around. And Lazerte has a wonderful art feature: the corner of the central square is curled up like the corner of a rug.
    Across from the pub we saw an open bookstore with some English language books. We each bought a book for 1E apiece. The owner of the store was an old, wrinkled woman -- still attractive in a fin de siecle way and we talked with her for a bit. She had several large paintings on the wall, and she explained they were about East and West Berlin, and the separation between the two. It sounded like she was the lover of the artist (this was before the wall came down) and came away from the affair with the paintings. The woman and the story were very exotic and very French (Perhaps a pleasant Flaubert story). And she had the appropriate husky voice (too many Gauloise over the years?)

Some days later, at Moissac, we took a rest day. Our gite was another -- end the day with a steep uphill walk -- but we had been warned: when dw made the reservation, the owner said there was a bar just before the climb started and perhaps stopping for a break and a beer would be a good idea. (we didn't, but it was a fair suggestion) Rather than staying in the dorm section, we opted for the "honeymoon suite" which was a large tepee like tent a bit away from the building. It was fine, except we would have liked electricity and a light. (we were entertained by a lizard wandering around on the outside top of the tent). Since we planned to stay two nights, the tent was ideal. We could leave our stuff while we explored the town, or could spend the day laying around. In the dorm, we would have had to vacate for much of the day (a common gite rule)
   We visited the Moissac cloister -- the oldest Christian cloister in the world (1100). The capitals on the pillars are the selling point. There are a couple hundred columns and each capital is different: some saints, some bible stories, some mythology, and some "rampant foliage" (dw and I agreed that we need more rampant foliage in our lives). About a hundred years ago, the French national railroad ran a RR track through a corner of the cloister and cut an adjacent chapel in half. They still refuse to fix the problem, proving that Philistines are everywhere.  While we were in the cloister, we heard a bunch of yelling, horn honking and firecrackers. A bit later we heard it again; we thought: Protest? Riot? But when we exited we saw it was a wedding. Saturday was a big wedding day, and during the day and evening we saw or heard eight weddings -- first they would have the official marriage at city hall, then later a church ceremony if desired. It seems to be a very civilized system.  (After the cloister we also visited the city museum. It was mostly about some local dude who did some stuff and collected assorted relics and other debris. It was 45 minutes out of our lives we will never get back)
    The owner of our gite recommended a restaurant, La Formage, where we ate lunch (much less expensive than dinner).  It had a set menu with two choices for each of three courses with a final cheese plate. We separated our choices so each got a taste of every dish: the meal was superb.

   Most of our "rest" day we spent sight-seeing. First we walked to the canal bridge. -- Not a bridge over a canal, but a bridge over a river, and that bridge carries a canal. The bridge is a canal with sidewalks. Well worth the three mile round trip. --- (The river is easily big enough for boat and barge traffic)
    Otherwise, we visited the church (and discretely watched a bit of a wedding -- including a sobbing guest -- spurned lover of the groom?), did some shopping without buying anything except for some food for tomorrow's lunch, looked at buildings and houses, and sat and people watched. A nice day. (with light rain)

We left Sunday, and most of Sunday's walk was along the canal --- very pretty, straight, lined with large plane trees, level, and after three hours --- sort of boring.  (we can be hard to please)

BOOK OF THE DAY:  Latin For All Occasions (Henry Beard) "Stercus pro cerebro habes." -- You have shit for brains.   "Podex perfectus es." -- You are a total asshole.   "Futue te ipsum et caballum in que vectus est." -- Screw you and the horse you rode in on.  

JOKE OF THE DAY:  If a bee is bothering you, don't swat it or run away. Just stand still and stare at it, because seeing is believing.
 
     Why didn't the Frenchman have two eggs for breakfast? -- Because one egg is un oeuf. 

FACTOID OF THE DAY:  Marcel Marceau once released a LP that was 19 minutes of silence, followed by 1 minute of applause --- on both sides. 

And so it goes. DJA

Via Podiensis, Part IV

To backtrack a couple of days from Part III: Before Conques, we came to Estaing -- another beautiful medieval village but different because it is the seat of the supposed ancestors of Valery Giscard d'Estaing (known in France as VGE) an unpopular President of France from 1974 until 1981. As I read about him, I concluded that he wasn't too bad as President but was unpopular because he was (is?) so spectacularly ego-centric -- a narcissist nonpareil. For example: he isn't actually related to the d'Estaings of Estaing the village, but he added the "d" to his name (signifying nobility) and claimed he is a descendent.  He wrote a book implying that he had an affair with Diana, Princess of Wales (later he said -- to paraphrase -- "Oh pshaw! I didn't mean that!) And he seems (from my reading) to have a strong "I'm way better than you" attitude. But in his favor, VGE did establish a fund to preserve and restore the chateau (now a convent) -- (It wasn't open for tours when we were there)
   Returning to the real d'Estaings: They also had a notable ego.
   (Perhaps it goes with the name: You have to admit, Valery Giscard d'Estaing rolls off the tongue like a 21 gun salute decorated with roses) --
   They built their splendid 15th century chateau with a tower significantly taller than the steeple of the nearby church. Actually you barely notice the poky church steeple. The tower seems to suggest the d'Estaings were superior to just about everyone else.  Building taller than the church steeple just wasn't done at the time. However, for pilgrims, d'Estaing also built a bridge over the river -- World Heritage, and still in use.
  
   And our very own Lafayette (of the Revolutionary War) was a cousin or something of the d'Estaings.  So the village has history as well as aesthetics going for it. (we also each had an excellent restaurant crepe' for dinner -- a welcome break from our usual dinners -- "cook whatever is cheap and easy")

Some time after Conques, we took the Cele variation of the GR65.
   (GR65 -- Grande Randonnee 65 -- the path has several variations -- some with different trail numbers -- that end in the same place. The Cele variation was the only one we walked)
   We don't know what the regular path was like but we really liked the Cele River valley. It was different but as attractive as the Aubrac region. The valley is a half mile, to a mile and a half wide, bounded by limestone cliffs, mostly in two bands and up to 500+ feet high. The trail frequently left the valley floor and climbed to the top of the cliff bands. We mostly stayed on the road at the bottom and thoroughly enjoyed the views. There were few villages along the way, but a regular scattering of chateaus and farmhouses, most with a tower. The road and trail through the valley had very little traffic, either cars or pilgrims -- it was very nice. 

As we were leaving the village Corn, we passed a woman walking three small dogs. dw thought she heard the woman address the dogs in English, but didn't pay much attention. We stopped at a junction, the woman caught up with us, and she was indeed speaking English. She was American (one of the very few we met on the walk), had lived in Eugene, Oregon for several years and knew the NW very well. She said she had moved to France for reasons that didn't work out, liked it there and decided to stay as rural France is less stressful than the USA. She had many funny stories about living in the area: one night she accidentally left her bathroom light on, and the next day several of her neighbors talked with her about it -- was something wrong? and she really shouldn't do that. Another time she forgot to close all of the window shutters -- similar reaction from the neighbors. She talked of anger and resentments between families lasting from WWI and WWII. She was very funny about it all, and her mind set was such that she found it all both amusing and annoying.  We talked for over an hour.
   dw and I decided (for no reason at all) that she had moved to France to be with a lover, he proved to be a cad, but she stayed and made her living writing romance novels and travel essays.

At another point, as we neared a cluster of cars parked along the road, three scuba divers, fully togged out with hooded dry suits, knives, timers, lights, cameras, etc. --- everything a diver could use or want --- walked toward us. dw and I both were "What the hell?" The Cele river is lovely -- tree lined, beautiful setting, but it's a small sedate river. We decided they must be doing some sort of fish, or other fauna/flora survey --- carefully searching the river bottom for exotic bugs. Then we saw a sign that described an extensive underwater cave system, extending from that point to several kilometers downstream. Conversation wasn't possible (since we speak little to no French) but it probably wasn't a show just for our benefit.

Toward the end of the valley, we took an upper trail that followed a narrow road between two cliff bands. Above and below the road, houses --- many occupied and some new --- were built onto the cliff face, with the cliff as a fourth wall. Like the Anasazi only 400 years newer.
   After a mile the trail left the road and wandered through a scrub oak/brush wooded area. We met a couple of men who were hunting pigs (30-30, or 30-06 rifles) and we both wished we had day-glo yellow vests and bells a-jingling. A half mile further on a medium sized dog met us -- he was wearing a radio collar with antenna. We guessed his job was to find pigs, and drive them towards the hunters. The radio was probably so he could be found if he got lost.
   From that point, we talked more and more loudly, whistled and sang, until we got past the thickets and into a clearer area. Our goal with this minor detour from the Cele valley was Cabrerets (another medieval village) and particularly Pech Merle -- a cave with pre-historic drawings.
   After we got settled into our gite, we walked the additional 1K uphill to Pech Merle. It's a nice, fair sized cave with all the usual cave stuff: mites and tites, fans, cave pearls (exceptionally nice) curtains, straws, etc. --- but the real attractions are the drawings. 24-25,000 years old. Hands outlined, bison, horses, aurocks, goats and deer. Guys skewered with spears and stylized women. An etched head of a deer and claw scratch marks from a giant cave bear. And in a patch of now hardened mud, the foot prints of two young (8 - 14? years old) children.  It all is wonderful and amazing and real. Unlike most of the similar caves, this one is the real thing. (Where you see only replicas, it isn't so much because of vandalism as because of damage caused by people breathing, shedding lint and dandruff, sneezing, and so on) Seeing Pech Merle is really special. The number of visitors is limited and only guided groups of 30 are allowed in, one at a time. It's an awesome experience.

   The next day, following local advice we used an abandoned RR bridge to cross the river Lot at the end of the Cele valley. This saved us three miles on our way to Bouzies, where we took another small detour and walked six miles (round trip) to Lapopie. Part of the trail was along an old barge towing path cut into a cliff face. One section of the path wall was carved and polished into a flowing, wave-like bas-relief. It was nice and not overly intrusive. 
   Lapopie is another "most beautiful" village and again the rating is well-merited. We didn't think it was better than Conques, for example, but its setting, perched on a cliff-top is indeed remarkable. Andre Breton loved the town, owned a house and lived there the last 15 years of his life. Several other Dadaists lived and worked there while Breton was there. 
   We had meant to spend the night in Lapopie, but we arrived so early we canceled our reservation and moved on. Our gite was actually a mile out of town and at the bottom of the cliff so we wouldn't have been tempted to return and further explore the town. We ended the day at Pasturat -- it was a very long day. 

BOOKS: PARASITE REX (Carl Zimmer): Everything you don't want to know about parasites, human, animal, plant, bug, and the fishes in the sea. You don't want to know it, because it'll really creep you out. It's very well written, very interesting, and very surprising that any of us are still alive.

MY LIFE AS AN EXPLORER (Sven Anders Hedin) A young Swede who explored, in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries,  much of the present day "stans" in Asia as well as parts of Russia, China, Tibet and Mongolia. The guy got around and had some amazing adventures. It's best to ignore his later infatuation with Hitler.

FACTOID OF THE DAY: When the British occupied Philadelphia during the Revolutionary War, Captain John Andre' stole a portrait of Benjamin Franklin. It wasn't returned until 1906. On the other hand, it was returned. Dare I mention the Elgin Marbles -- properly, the Parthenon Marbles. (David Cameron (commenting on returning looted material): "if you say yes to one, you suddenly find the British Museum would be empty.)

JOKE OF THE DAY: How do you keep Canadian bacon from curling in the pan? Take away its broom.                  

And so it goes. DJA

Vis Podiensis, Part III

While walking I carried a small spiral notebook in my shirt pocket. I would use it to make short comments (sometimes just a word or two) of any real or imagined notable event and then in the evening use my annoying ASUS notebook to type a full account of each day. One evening I asked dw if she remembered anything about the walk after Aubrec.

   "No," she said. "Should I?"
   "What? Am I here by myself?" I asked.
   "I live in the moment; it's how I savor life."

And then she informed me that her brain wasn't working properly because she had a sun rash on her calves.
    I know all about the knee bone connecting to the thigh bone and etc. but that still seemed to be a pretty thin excuse.

After an apparently uneventful walk we arrived at St. Comes d'olt, which is not a different way of saying St. Comes the dolt ---

The spiral steeple St Comes d'olt

Leaving St Comes

Olt is the old name of the river Lot. St. Comes is another beautiful medieval town -- this whole region is a well deserved UNESCO World Heritage area. (The trail is still frequently terrible -- eroded and rocky -- but the scenery is stunning).
   We stayed in a gite that is part of an Ursuline convent (still active) and the room was one of the best of the walk: modern, very comfortable and with a private bath. (The bathroom had a tiled water resistant floor with a drain in one corner. The shower was just a spray hose attached to the wall in that corner. You were expected to be bright enough not to spray the 220 volt outlet, the light switch or the toilet paper) St. Comes and the room was so nice we decided to stay another day -- alas, no room at the inn so we got a late (9A.M.) start, walking through the heat of the day which we usually tried to avoid. 

A few more days and we came to Conques, another Most Beautiful village and more than most, it really is. It marks the half-way point of the trail, and many French either quit walking at that point, or start on the second half (taking two or more years to do the trail), and many just walk between Le Puy and Conques as that's the nicest part of the whole trail.  It would be easy to spend days photographing the village. It's justifiably a major regional tourist attraction -- a lot of people, but still tolerable.
   Our gite was part of a still active monastery adjacent to the church. Again modernized and very comfortable, except for the giant spider that could have leapt on my face while I was sleeping. Our room overlooked the church and a row of reusable stone coffins. On our second night (we stayed two days) we opened our windows and as we lay in bed we were treated to a just loud enough organ concert from the church. And to our surprise we met Robert again. He had been a couple of days ahead of us, but was delayed with food poisoning (something we both escaped) and then planned to spend an extra day in Conques.

The tiles were about 10 inches square

After Conques, the trail significantly improved, although it continued (and kept it up for the whole 500 miles) to climb up and down every available hill. At one point near Livinhac the trail veered off the road it was following, climbed a steep rocky bluff, and continued to follow the road, only 100 feet higher. We just kept following the road and were pleased to see that several people behind us followed our lead. On the second half of the walk we were more willing to follow a map and avoid some of the more irritating parts of the trail.
One of the windows, Chapel St. Roch

Our gite in Livenhoc -- top floor, bathroom in a different building.

We started playing a car game in Spain that we resumed in France. When on a road, the one walking in front will call "Car" when they see a car coming, and the one behind will reply "Check". It's a reasonable warning system as often the rear guard isn't paying attention -- looking around, searching for a tasty ripe berry, or plum or apple. And the leader does have to pay more attention: looking for trail markers, piles of poop, holes in the roadside, etc. After a time, the game was expanded to calling out "Truck", "Giant Truck", "Tractor" and so on. And if the vehicle was approaching from the rear, the proper response was "Catch". At one point dw said she considered calling out "Car" as soon as she heard one, but she was afraid I would forget about it before it actually came close. I pointed out that I'm not THAT deaf, and she said: "Yes you are!". I would have responded with a clever mot, but I wasn't sure what she said.

TODAY'S BOOK: Extinction -- Douglas H. Erwin. Erwin writes about the great Permian extinction of 250 million years ago (dw read this and fell asleep -- "That book sounds better than Benadryl" she said), when about 90% of life on earth became extinct  in less than a 100,000 years. He writes about what became extinct, and what survived (often, just barely) and what caused it all, with several possibilities. He names many, many different groups (blastoids, crinoids, fusulinid foraminifera, etc) and eras (Changhsingian Stage of the Late Permian, Phanerozoic period) all of which makes reading a slog in places. It's interesting enough that I'll finish it, but it is a book that's easy to put down. 

JOKE OF THE DAY: It's a few days late: Originally,Hellmanns mayonnaise was made only in England, but was a great favorite -- wildly popular -- in Mexico. And, as is little known, the Titanic, after New York, was scheduled to stop in Veracruz to deliver to Mexico the 80,000 jars of Hellmanns Mayonnaise it was carrying as cargo. Of course, the Titanic sank in the North Atlantic and so to this day Mexico commemorates (not celebrates) Sinko De Mayo. 

What do you call a hen staring at lettuce? Chicken Caesar Salad.

FACTOID OF THE DAY: Warsaw Poland has a mermaid showing her boobs on its Coat of Arms.

And so it goes. DJA