Read Online Paris to the Pyrenees: A Skeptic Pilgrim Walks the Way of Saint James by David Downie - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: David Downie
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of Astérix came back to me. Ah, Saint-André-en-Morvan, plus Morvan que ça et tu meurs . Any more Morvan than Saint-André and you die.
“Food we can do without,” I grumbled. “We have to find water.” I stalked among the houses thinking, they’ve pulled up the drawbridge.
“They’re afraid of us,” Alison said, amused.
Granted, I could understand someone fleeing at the sight of me—the dark hair, perpetual six o’clock shadow, the trucker’s hat and big black mountaineering glasses. But Alison? With her silvery hair, dangling cameras and ready smile, she might indeed inspire terror in a mouse, but a Frenchman?
I caught sight of a woman villager who hadn’t run away in time. Leaning over the garden wall, I held up our water bottle, trying to look and sound meek. “We’re pilgrims,” I pleaded. “The café is closed, we have no food or water, please let us refill our water bottles.”
The woman blushed the color of a red delicious—par-blind as I am, even I could see that. “Who is it?” questioned a worried voice from inside the house. A man came out and goggled at us—unexpected outsiders.
“They’re pilgrims, and the café is closed,” said the woman. “It’s typical.”
The man looked up wryly. “Hold on,” he said. “We’ll get you some water.” He stood guard while the woman disappeared. Presently she returned with a bottle. By then the man had told us his family came from the village, though he’d grown up in the big city. Paris and the Morvan were tied by an umbilical cord, he explained, practically repeating the tortoise’s words, because of the wet-nurses and foundlings of yore. Over the last century, most morvandiaux emigrants had found work in the City of Light but lived with one foot in their village. “Out-of-season people aren’t used to visitors,” he added by way of apology. “They’re not mean, just shy.”
“And distrustful,” snorted his wife. “I’m not from the Morvan and can’t get used to it. No one talks. People say Parisians are unwelcoming?” She peered at us. “I have half a frozen baguette,” she seemed to remember. “And some cheese. Otherwise what will you eat? There’s nothing for miles around. Nothing. And no one else is likely to offer you anything.”
The energetic Parisienne came back with bread, cheese, and, since I’d already finished the bottle she’d given us, more water. Our gratitude was boundless and sincere. We waved and made to leave. But the man kept talking. There were three hundred people left in the commune —the territory covered administratively by the village, he said. It was five miles square. In other words: vast. His mother, he said, was in a retirement home nearby. It took three hours to get here by car from Paris, because of the traffic. And he gave us a detailed account of the shortcuts to take, and places to stop en route to shop.
“It’s good to talk to someone,” he said, winding up his tale with a reluctant smile. “The minute we get here, it’s total isolation.”
We thanked the couple again and walked south, thinking aloud about isolation and poverty. Once upon a time, the Morvan had survived thanks to breast milk and foundlings. Now it was retirees. The newly want to light a candle9HChbred and the nearly dead. By the looks of them, this pair of seniors was pretty spry. The village was lucky to have them.
DRUIDS AND FLYING FISH
At the bottom of an erosion-sculpted valley rushed a clear creek called Le Saloir. We crossed on a wooden footbridge. Mossy boulders and budding trees stood on both banks. It was a perfect spot for Druids—the priest-class of ancient Gaul. Where were the Druids of today? Did they drive farm vehicles or live in Paris and own holiday homes in the Morvan?
Allegedly, the proto-Impressionist painter Jean-Baptiste-Camille Corot painted upon these banks, inspired by Saloir Creek and its ruined millhouse. It was hard to tear ourselves away. I stared into the swirling, sparkling
“Food we can do without,” I grumbled. “We have to find water.” I stalked among the houses thinking, they’ve pulled up the drawbridge.
“They’re afraid of us,” Alison said, amused.
Granted, I could understand someone fleeing at the sight of me—the dark hair, perpetual six o’clock shadow, the trucker’s hat and big black mountaineering glasses. But Alison? With her silvery hair, dangling cameras and ready smile, she might indeed inspire terror in a mouse, but a Frenchman?
I caught sight of a woman villager who hadn’t run away in time. Leaning over the garden wall, I held up our water bottle, trying to look and sound meek. “We’re pilgrims,” I pleaded. “The café is closed, we have no food or water, please let us refill our water bottles.”
The woman blushed the color of a red delicious—par-blind as I am, even I could see that. “Who is it?” questioned a worried voice from inside the house. A man came out and goggled at us—unexpected outsiders.
“They’re pilgrims, and the café is closed,” said the woman. “It’s typical.”
The man looked up wryly. “Hold on,” he said. “We’ll get you some water.” He stood guard while the woman disappeared. Presently she returned with a bottle. By then the man had told us his family came from the village, though he’d grown up in the big city. Paris and the Morvan were tied by an umbilical cord, he explained, practically repeating the tortoise’s words, because of the wet-nurses and foundlings of yore. Over the last century, most morvandiaux emigrants had found work in the City of Light but lived with one foot in their village. “Out-of-season people aren’t used to visitors,” he added by way of apology. “They’re not mean, just shy.”
“And distrustful,” snorted his wife. “I’m not from the Morvan and can’t get used to it. No one talks. People say Parisians are unwelcoming?” She peered at us. “I have half a frozen baguette,” she seemed to remember. “And some cheese. Otherwise what will you eat? There’s nothing for miles around. Nothing. And no one else is likely to offer you anything.”
The energetic Parisienne came back with bread, cheese, and, since I’d already finished the bottle she’d given us, more water. Our gratitude was boundless and sincere. We waved and made to leave. But the man kept talking. There were three hundred people left in the commune —the territory covered administratively by the village, he said. It was five miles square. In other words: vast. His mother, he said, was in a retirement home nearby. It took three hours to get here by car from Paris, because of the traffic. And he gave us a detailed account of the shortcuts to take, and places to stop en route to shop.
“It’s good to talk to someone,” he said, winding up his tale with a reluctant smile. “The minute we get here, it’s total isolation.”
We thanked the couple again and walked south, thinking aloud about isolation and poverty. Once upon a time, the Morvan had survived thanks to breast milk and foundlings. Now it was retirees. The newly want to light a candle9HChbred and the nearly dead. By the looks of them, this pair of seniors was pretty spry. The village was lucky to have them.
DRUIDS AND FLYING FISH
At the bottom of an erosion-sculpted valley rushed a clear creek called Le Saloir. We crossed on a wooden footbridge. Mossy boulders and budding trees stood on both banks. It was a perfect spot for Druids—the priest-class of ancient Gaul. Where were the Druids of today? Did they drive farm vehicles or live in Paris and own holiday homes in the Morvan?
Allegedly, the proto-Impressionist painter Jean-Baptiste-Camille Corot painted upon these banks, inspired by Saloir Creek and its ruined millhouse. It was hard to tear ourselves away. I stared into the swirling, sparkling
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