Iam liquescit et decrescit grando, nix et cetera
I walked today with Catherine, la Francaise. We left the Dutch couple at the convent. They were not going as far as we were; in fact, they were walking a circular route and not doing the Camino at all.
We left town just before nine and made good progress, covering 17 kilometres before lunch. We passed through a couple of hamlets which offered no chance of refreshment.
Most of the morning we walked along the Chemin de Cretes (with a circumflex over the "e", another example of the old "s"). With a cool breeze in our faces, this was the very best of walking. Hay fields rolled away on either side, with the Pyrennees in the distance, snow on their peaks. And as we came down into the valleys, we passed through scrubby oaks, some pines, and the ubiquitous broom.
I found myself marching along to the frenetic rhythms of Carmina Burana. After we sing at a concert, I am always left with its themes in my head. At the time, I was sorry that Carmina had erased the beautiful melodies of the Brahms Requiem we had sung a few weeks earlier, but today I found that the marching rhythms of the drinking songs hastened my pace.
It was after lunch that things went wrong. With about six or seven kilometres to go we followed a track up a steep hill, somehow missed a turnoff, and found ourselves up against a barrier of mud, too deep to wade through and impossible to pass on either side. We backtracked until we found what we thought was a parallel trail, took it, and came upon a fence where we noticed a coquille fastened to a post. Was this the Camino? We pressed on but it led to a lonely farm where there was no one to help us. Someone must have idly nailed the shell to the post years ago, little realizing that one day it would give a couple of walkers false hope. We followed the farm access road back to the highway, and eventually came upon some local ramblers who put us right, and accompanied us into town.
At a cafe on the square of the beautiful medieval town, I drank one of the most refreshing beers I have ever enjoyed.
I am staying with a local family, part of a local network which puts up pilgrims for the night when there is no gite in town. Before supper, I watered the garden and fixed a pipe passing water from the roof into a tank. As we ate, I sensed I was caught in the middle of a mother-daughter conflict.
Tonight I will have to study the guide very carefully and make some decisions. I do not have enough time to reach Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port, my original intention. Some of the steps ahead are up to 42 kilometres long with climbs of 1,600 feet. I will have to cut these in two. Better to proceed leisurely and enjoy the magnificent scenery than to arrive exhausted at seven o'clock with no time to visit the town.
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