Day 31. Saint-Aubin-de-Blaye to Saint-Martin-Lacaussade. 21 kms (726)

Crass Casualty obstructs the sun and rain,
And dicing Time for gladness casts a moan. 

People have often observed that one lives a life in miniature on the Camino, in which everything rushes by very quickly. One meets people, has a meal with them or walks with them for a few days, and then leaves them, people with whom one might have been friends in real life. Experiences are brief, but perhaps more intense.

Yesterday, I had a meal with a cyclist, Sebastian, a policeman, who was going to Santiago. We were the only diners in a huge restaurant, with perhaps 40 tables set up, waiting for customers. A cat bounced across the tables. Perhaps that was why we were alone. 

Sebastian had walked on other chemins in France, but had suffered a serious illness, and was now unable to walk long distances. So he was riding his bike. It would take him about ten days to get to Santiago. It was a memorable meal, and I wish him well.

I left Saint-Aubin just after eight, and headed for Etauliers, the first village, six kilometres on.

Now that I've left the Departement de Charente Maritime for the Gironde, the concrete bornes with their reassuring little piles of stones on top have been replaced by wooden poles with the coquille, and sometimes the painted yellow arrow that guides you in Spain. Unfortunately, the placing of these markers is not always consistent, so I had to open my guide at times.

As I walked along, a tiny rabbit bounded away and disappeared into a hole by the side of the road. Then I saw his brother or sister, squashed flat on the pavement in front of me, victim of "Crass Casualty". Why did one live and the other die? I thought of that great poem, "Hap", by Thomas Hardy. It is hard to accept that our lives are governed by Chance..

If but some vengeful god would call to me
From up the sky, and laugh: "Thou suffering thing,
Know that thy sorrow is my ecstasy,
That thy love's loss is my hate's profiting!"

Then would I bear it, clench myself, and die,
Steeled by the sense of ire unmerited;
Half-eased in that a Powerfuller than I
Had willed and meted me the tears I shed.

But not so. How arrives it joy lies slain,
And why unblooms the best hope ever sown?
--Crass Casualty obstructs the sun and rain,
And dicing Time for gladness casts a moan. . .
These purblind Doomsters had as readily strown
Blisses about my pilgrimage as pain.

After Etauliers, I had a choice: to take a rather circuitous route to visit some pilgrims' graves, or head directly towards my gite along a cycle path which followed the route of an old railway line. I intended no disrespect, but decided to give the pilgrims a miss and take the short cut. 

I was musing on another one of my themes - the enlightened policy in France which spends public money so that the "common people can re-create themselves" - when I noticed a tractor with a huge folding lawnmower attachment coming down the path towards me. It was cutting the long grass on either side of the track. I let him go by, when suddenly he put the great machine into reverse and backed up the trail to catch me up. He had noticed the maple leaf on my backpack, and wanted to chat. He had been twice to Quebec, and travelled all around the province, and wanted to tell me about his experiences. We chatted for fifteen minutes or so. He said he would like to live in Canada. I said I would like to live in France. We agreed that it was good to visit another country and experience a different culture.

It is interesting that there is no distinction made in France between Canada and Quebec. Québécois sont Canadiens.

After that, it was easy walking to my gite at Saint-Martin-Lacaussade. Vines covered every square inch of land: grapes as far as the eye can see, slowly growing for the autumn harvest.

I am three kilometres short of Blaye, where I catch my boat tomorrow to cross the Gironde. After that, it's a long day's walk to Blanquefort on the outskirts of Bordeaux. I have to leave very early in the morning to catch that first boat.

The nearest restaurant is at least a kilometre away, so I've prepared my own meal here at the gite. Pâté, then sausages and lentils from a can, and then cheese, all washed down with a half bottle of Bordeaux.