sponsorship endorsing the pilgrimage in general. He considered I was doing something worthwhile, and by staking me to a coffee he had a share in the venture. It was a touching and kindly gesture, but it had its serious side too, dispelling the notion that I was an entirely free agent on this journey. And in fact the visit to St Sever was to prove a watershed; after it I was never again able to feel that going on pilgrimage to Santiago was something that concerned myself alone.
Heavy lunches need to be balanced by a nap or a gentle stroll; they certainly are not good for cycling, especially not when accompanied by a couple of glasses of full-bodied wine. Once more I found myself floundering feebly on the uphill sections, of which there were plenty, some of them quite formidable, and I began to be quite alarmed at the thought of the mountain barriers still to come. By five p.m., with a horrid, damp weather front closing in, I gave up the struggle, obtained permission from a friendly farmer to pitch my tent in the shelter of a belt of trees, and having decided to dispense with any further meals that day, read a little, and soon dropped into a much-needed, restorative sleep.
The next day showed no lifting of the cloud ceiling. The countryside was grey and melancholy like an early black and white film. I rather liked the period effect, with everything dripping, and the grass heavy with droplets of moisture. Even the cows, whose heads loomed over the wire fences eyeing me as I passed, had their long lashes beaded as though with tears. Under the grey concealing mist the contours of the land rose and fell continuously, and I tried to decide whether it was harder not to see the extent of the slopes that lay ahead, or a blessing. I was still unsure about this when I reached Orthez, a small town on the banks of the wide Gave de Pau. A few weak gleams of sunlight chose that moment to break through and immediately life in general seemed much more cheerful. It was further improved by a café in the main square opening its doors to the congregation who were beginning to file out of the church across the way. Studying the map over my coffee, I realised that I must be very close to a house where I was expected to call. The friendly Rigauds, who had entertained me in Cluis, had telephoned friends of theirs who had recently moved to a village on my route. It was on the spit of land in Aquitaine that lies between the two broad arms of the Gave, the northernmost of which, graced with a fortified medieval bridge, flowed darkly before me as I drank my coffee.
An hour later I was eating luncheon in a smart modernised farmhouse, the guest of André and Claire Legrain, an exairline pilot and his wife. Neither came from this part of France, but had chosen it for their retirement purely because it was close enough to the Pyrenees for them to go skiing with ease. They knew nothing of the Santiago pilgrimage or of the Chemin de Compostelle that passed so close to their door, though now they heard about it from me they realised the significance of names like l’Hôpitald’Orion, attached to a tiny village from which the great medieval buildings had long since vanished.
I spent a pleasant day with André and Claire, for they had the same warm gift of hospitality I had enjoyed with the Rigauds and made me feel very welcome. But I was surprised at just how novel it felt to be installed in a comfortable house after only two weeks of my spartan little tent. Sofas and armchairs seemed positively sybaritic, and as for the soft double bed I was to sleep in, compared with the narrow, inch-thick little mat I spent my nights on, it seemed ridiculous to suppose that the two things had anything in common. At this halfway point in the journey I was tired enough to appreciate a rest, but I cannot pretend that it was much of a mental relaxation. Claire spoke no English and André knew only as much as was required of an international pilot, so my erratic
Heavy lunches need to be balanced by a nap or a gentle stroll; they certainly are not good for cycling, especially not when accompanied by a couple of glasses of full-bodied wine. Once more I found myself floundering feebly on the uphill sections, of which there were plenty, some of them quite formidable, and I began to be quite alarmed at the thought of the mountain barriers still to come. By five p.m., with a horrid, damp weather front closing in, I gave up the struggle, obtained permission from a friendly farmer to pitch my tent in the shelter of a belt of trees, and having decided to dispense with any further meals that day, read a little, and soon dropped into a much-needed, restorative sleep.
The next day showed no lifting of the cloud ceiling. The countryside was grey and melancholy like an early black and white film. I rather liked the period effect, with everything dripping, and the grass heavy with droplets of moisture. Even the cows, whose heads loomed over the wire fences eyeing me as I passed, had their long lashes beaded as though with tears. Under the grey concealing mist the contours of the land rose and fell continuously, and I tried to decide whether it was harder not to see the extent of the slopes that lay ahead, or a blessing. I was still unsure about this when I reached Orthez, a small town on the banks of the wide Gave de Pau. A few weak gleams of sunlight chose that moment to break through and immediately life in general seemed much more cheerful. It was further improved by a café in the main square opening its doors to the congregation who were beginning to file out of the church across the way. Studying the map over my coffee, I realised that I must be very close to a house where I was expected to call. The friendly Rigauds, who had entertained me in Cluis, had telephoned friends of theirs who had recently moved to a village on my route. It was on the spit of land in Aquitaine that lies between the two broad arms of the Gave, the northernmost of which, graced with a fortified medieval bridge, flowed darkly before me as I drank my coffee.
An hour later I was eating luncheon in a smart modernised farmhouse, the guest of André and Claire Legrain, an exairline pilot and his wife. Neither came from this part of France, but had chosen it for their retirement purely because it was close enough to the Pyrenees for them to go skiing with ease. They knew nothing of the Santiago pilgrimage or of the Chemin de Compostelle that passed so close to their door, though now they heard about it from me they realised the significance of names like l’Hôpitald’Orion, attached to a tiny village from which the great medieval buildings had long since vanished.
I spent a pleasant day with André and Claire, for they had the same warm gift of hospitality I had enjoyed with the Rigauds and made me feel very welcome. But I was surprised at just how novel it felt to be installed in a comfortable house after only two weeks of my spartan little tent. Sofas and armchairs seemed positively sybaritic, and as for the soft double bed I was to sleep in, compared with the narrow, inch-thick little mat I spent my nights on, it seemed ridiculous to suppose that the two things had anything in common. At this halfway point in the journey I was tired enough to appreciate a rest, but I cannot pretend that it was much of a mental relaxation. Claire spoke no English and André knew only as much as was required of an international pilot, so my erratic
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