All's well that ends well
...although I would have preferred to stroll into Beziers along the shady bank of le Canal du Midi, instead of plodding for 10 kilometres along the highway with the sun on my back.
Again I can't sleep and I'm typing this in the middle of the night. I was cheered up by a message from my daughter who tells me she is playing in La Traviata. Is that the one with the famous tenor aria which we learned as children? There was culture back in Oz in those days.
Fried fish and chipio
Caught fresh six months ago,
They stink like billyo,
Caught fresh six months ago.
I learned at breakfast this morning that the famed Pont Romain of Saint-Thibery is not a Roman bridge at all, but a medieval one, properly called le Pont Romieu. Some centuries ago, a typesetter corrected what he thought was an error, and the new name stuck. Rather like the mistake made by the American typesetter who missed the "i" in "aluminium".
The Chemin Romieu was a pilgrimage route that ran from Rome to Santiago, and of course, they would have followed the Via Domitia. Thus, it was also the Chemin de Compostelle, but because it was subject to flooding and attacks by marauders, pilgrims began to travel further inland along what is now the Chemin d'Arles. So it seems I am travelling an authentic route after all.
But not today. After several kilometres, I somehow took a wrong turning and walked for miles along a gravel track without passing any landmarks. I passed a jogger who, without her glasses, was unable to help me, and then a cyclist who puzzled for a while over my map, and then said I was on the right road. But I wasn't.
Eventually, I could see a modern village in the distance and assumed the track would lead there. I arrived above and behind a block of apartment buildings. I scrambled down and sought directions. I had decided not to try to retrieve my path, but to to walk along the highway.
I knocked on a door, and a fellow in skimpy underpants told me I was eight kilometres from Beziers. I took this with a grain of salt because the French always underestimate distances. He gave me directions to the highway and on to Beziers. These I confirmed with a pretty girl walking a dog.
I walked for several kilometres past the golf course and through some very dry country with scrubby oaks and stunted pines. Good for wine, if irrigated.
When I reached the departmental with a clear sign to Beziers, I sat down, relaxed, and gnawed a crust of stale baguette. A pleasant breeze assailed me from the south, and I think I even felt a drop of rain. I was putting off the hard slog. A cyclist passed and told me I had 10 kms to go. Once round Elk and Beaver Lake, I thought.
Then I couldn't linger any longer. I had to plod off. I walked along the shoulder of the road facing the oncoming traffic and ready to jump into the ditch if necessary. Sometimes I would walk along the field to one side between the rows of melons. Beziers is a big city, the only one on this route, I hope, and after reaching the outskirts, it took me a while to get into town. The cyclist was right I had walked 10 kms. The underpanted man had underestimated the distance.
How did I know how far I had walked along the road? I measured it on my Garmin Fenix. I owe an apology to Garmin. Last year I told you how I became disillusioned with my GPS watch. I had been sitting on the loo and noticed that the distance counter was ticking. In those stationary five minutes I covered several hundred metres. This made me doubt the distances I had been posting, which included a couple of marathons. So I didn't use it after that, and took it back to MEC, the greatest outdoor shop in the world.
But I missed that watch, so I decided to try again, and a few months ago I bought another one. To my horror the same error occurred. I would go in for a coffee, and continue to put on the distance while I sat inside. I phoned Garmin who explained the problem was caused something called GPS drift, which I don't really understand. I could solve it by turning on Autopause, which I do. It works.
I am staying tonight in a depressing little room in the Hotel Angles. Climbing to my room on the third floor ranks with any elevation so far on this walk. But it's cheap!
I wandered around the town. The cathedral was closed, strangely, and the statues above the portail were all bound up in thick netting. Had they been falling down? I sat outside and had a beer or two at one of the many bar/restaurants which typically line the squares. All was almost well.
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