I spent a very comfortable night at the gite. I was alone in this huge establishment, a former farm, capable of holding 30 people at a pinch. No likelihood of being turned away there. He was a former viticulteur, a producer of wine, and he had evidently done a fair bit of sampling in his time. He had a florid complexion, and tossed back his aperitif with a flourish. She was garrulous, talking non-stop about the excessive demands of her aged parent. But after giving me a reasonable meal with wine and aperitif, and doing my washing, and giving me a comfortable bed, all they expected was a donation. Some impecunious pilgrims would have given them only five Euros, but I gave them a fair amount.
As I walked out of town, I passed one of those massive railway stations, of grander proportions than one would expect in a little village. The railway, too, was an institution that believed "by your works, ye shall be known", and took pride in its architecture. Once this station would have housed a station master, his family, and perhaps a ticket collector. Now it probably had an automatic ticket dispenser.
I am now passing through the region of cognac and pineau, and the signs for these delightful products are everywhere. I learned last night that cognac is distilled from white wine that is not suitable for drinking.
I quickly walked the few kilometres along the highway to join the Chemin at Juicq. Then it was down a limestone road to a narrow hollow trail through the woods which may have been the old pilgrim route. It had an air of antiquity about it. After that it was up and down, and in and out of woods.
This route is getting better and better, as we spend less time on the bitumen, and more and more on minor limestone tracks or in the woods. For the most part, the Chemin de Saint-Jacques, marked by its concrete bornes, follows the GR, but from time to time the latter wanders off on its own. A few days ago, I was walking along a road, and the GR took off around a square field to join me a little later. I had walked along one side of a square; the GR had followed the other three.
As I approached Saintes, the trail became quite hilly, and I thought it would have been a real killer for those people who were walking from Saint-Jean to Saintes in one step.
Situated on both sides of the River Charente, Saintes is a delightful town. Hosting 16 churches and associated hospices in the Middle Ages, it was an important pilgrim assembly place. They would enter the town and cross the Charente by an old Roman bridge, of which only the Arc de Germanicus remains. To me it looks a little out of place, standing alone on the bank of the river. The spire of the cathedral dominates the town. The most remarkable feature is the ruins of a Gallo-Roman amphitheatre, which unfortunately was closed when I went to visit it.
I am staying in a refuge attached to the Eglise Saint-Eutrope, a church with a mighty spire and a huge crypt. There are six of us occupying three double bunks: three Spanish cyclists, one English cyclist, an Italian foot-pilgrim and I.
As I type these last lines before I go to sleep, I feel that I'm back in Spain. The Spaniards are snoring, one rumbling bass, a baritone, and a tenor.
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