In such an ecstasy
It was an easy day on rural roads across flat country. We left before eight, and made such good time, with only one stop, that we arrived at our destination in time for lunch.
We soon reached the open countryside, where I noticed a couple of enormous oaks, standing alone in the middle of a field. And then I saw a hawk in the distance swooping down after some poor creature that had gone to ground. I stood watching it for a couple of minutes, marvelling at its persistence and hoping that its prey would have the sense to stay under cover. Then I noticed another hawk doing the same thing. Ah! I had been fooled again. They were kites, attached to poles, doing such a good job that they would put the traditional scarecrows out of business.
I have never seen so many different attempts to save the crops, from the traditional scarecrow to the sound of gun shots, from strips of plastic blowing in the wind to the imitation hawks attached to poles.
The larks were with us again today, braving the winds above and singing in full voice, disappearing in the clouds only to flutter down once more. What is it about their song that is so uplifting? It may be that we hear them in the wide open spaces were we least expect to hear the song of a bird, and then we see them so high up, tiny birds, battling against the winds. They encourage us lonely travellers down below.
No, I didn't hear a nightingale last night, but my friend Steven the Belge heard a bird singing during the night that may well have been the nightingale. But the larks, too, pour forth their soul.
Steven is a congenial fellow, a graphic designer, who is somewhat dissatisfied with his present career, and is contemplating a change. He will make up his mind before he reaches Santiago. Another reason for walking the Camino!
I saw several herds of cattle today which would have pleased my old mate, meus amicus Johannes, amator vaccarum. And just those few words make me think of my old Latin teacher, Jumbo, aptly nicknamed for his elephantine stature, who would force me to conjugate verbs and decline nouns by grasping me by the hair and digging his knuckle into my head. I have a dent in my skull to prove it.
Moody, decline mensa!
Mensa, mensam, mensae, mensae, mensa. Mensae, mensas, mensarum, mensis, mensis.
For the one or two of you who might be wondering, we declined nouns according to what I suspect was the English method, ignoring the vocative case since it differed from the nominative only in the second declension. In North America, all six cases are included, and declined in a different order.
We used a little text book called Macmillan's Shorter Latin Course, which generations of schoolboys had transformed into Macmillan's Shorter Eating Course. Similarly, many years later, I taught from a textbook called The Fart of Poetry.
We stopped for a rest at the little village of Sainte-Catherine-de-Fierbois. There was no bar open, but we found a bakery which had decided to provide coffee for pilgrims, almost as a public service. There is a statue of Joan of Arc in the square in front of the church. She is supposed to have stopped in the village for a coffee on her way to war. Many towns in France make the same claim.
Tonight, after a lot of walking around the town looking for the Office de Tourisme, and then the lodging, we are staying at the municipal gite, an old stone hose half buried in a cliff, with a wood fire. Just as well, for it's going to be cold tonight.
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