The poet's eye in a fine frenzy rolling,
Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven,
And as imagination bodies forth
The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen,
Turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing,
A local habitation and a name.
Is there a better definition of poetry than that?
This is a bonus post. Read on if you are interested, or give it a miss if you're not.
I used to think that bloggers were rather immodest and self-indulgent. I still do, and now I've joined them. But then, what the hell! You don't have to read my posts if you don't want to.
My old mate John in Perth asked me for my favourite poem. I have been walking along the highway a lot lately, so I've been thinking about it. But I can't pin it down to just one poem.
First of all I would include the great speeches which I've mentioned before from Shakespeare's plays. And then the sonnets. I would choose a copy of Shakespeare's Sonnets as my desert island book of poetry.
First among the sonnets is the famous
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date.
Surely, those are among the most beautiful lines in our language.
And then there's
That time of year in me thou mayst behold,
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold
Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
At my age, that sonnet is particularly meaningful, and I love the image of the last line.
There are two other sonnets I must mention.
No other poem expresses the vanity of human ambition as well as Shelley's "Ozymandias".
My name is Ozymandias, king of kings,
Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair.
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away.
Everything in that last line conveys the vast emptiness of the desert, and human ambition.
And then there is Wordsworth's sonnet on the evils of materialism:
The world is too much with us. Late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our power,
Little we see in nature that is ours,
We have given our hearts a way, a sordid boon.
I wonder if they teach that sonnet in Fort McMurray.
Keats' Odes have alway been among my favourites, "Ode to a Grecian Urn" a little less than the others. "Ode to a Nightingale" is close to the top of the list of great poems. Lines such as
Thou wast not born for death, immortal bird
and
Now seems it more than ever rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain
rank with Shakespeare. As does all of "To Autumn", apparently the most anthologised poem in the English language. With good reason. Every line is perfect, so I hesitate to quote just one. But I will:
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind
It gives me such pleasure to say that line. And the whole poem is like that.
I like Wordsworth as well, especially "Tintern Abbey" and "Intimations of Immortality", and parts of The Prelude. His lines keep coming to me as I pass through the countryside.
I heard a thousand blended notes
While in a grove I sate reclined...
When it comes to the Victorians, I've been thinking about Matthew Arnold's "Dover Beach" as I walk by church after magnificent church, once the centre of life in Europe but now devoid of priests and standing empty on Sundays.
The Sea of Faith
Was once, too, at the full...
But now I only hear
Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar
Poets of the second league, like composers, sometimes come up with a masterpiece.
Tennyson, I think is in the first league. "Ulysses" is one of the great Victorian poems. The last line,
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield
used to be heard in the English-speaking world at school Speech Nights as often as Gilbert and Sullivan medleys at band concerts. In fact, I think it was quoted in 1958 when I graduated. However, I prefer
Some work of noble note may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men who strove with gods
or
Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough gleams that untravelled world
or
I will drink life to the lees
Memorable lines with meaning to boot! Tennyson had an ear for the music of the language. "Ulysses" is close to the top of my list. If I were a kid forced to recite a poem under the new curriculum in England, that's the poem I'd choose. Such great-sounding lines!
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy
You can hear the clanging of swords and the clashing of shields.
I like some of his shorter poems as well. Sixty years ago, I came upon this one in "The Harp of Youth". It has stayed with me.
Break, break, break,
On thy cold, grey stones, O sea.
And I would that my tongue could utter,
The thoughts that arise in me.
But for obvious reasons, Tennyson is out of favour today. It's a shame.
Wilfred Owen was a fine poet. I think that "Dulce et Decorum Est" should be on every school curriculum as the definitive anti-war poem.
I like T. S. Elliot's "Preludes" and "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock. For all his complex imagery, Elliot understood the beauty of simplicity:
And then the lighting of the lamps
It reminds me of Shakespeare's
Let us sit down and tell sad stories of the death of kings
What a perfect monosyllabic line that is! The great poets "felt" the language.
I also get great pleasure from reading the poems of Banjo Patterson, Australia's bush poet. The intellectuals scoffed at him at the time for not presenting a realistic view of life in the bush, and my English teacher derided him for only being a story teller, but I like him. "Clancy of the Overflow" is a very fine poem.
Incidentally, Banjo Patterson wrote an early version of Australia's unofficial national anthem, "Waltzing Maltilda". Is it really true that the song is no longer taught in Australian schools because it's about suicide? As the character (played by Jack Hawkins, I think) says in The Bridge on the River Kwai: "Madness, absolute madness!"
Don't be impressed because I have these poems in my head. Many of them I have heard hundred of students recite over the years. Besides, I've had to cheat and Google a couple of times when a phrase eluded me.
These are some of my favourite poems. There are many gaps in my knowledge of literature and, consequently, I'm not very familiar with some poets who might otherwise have been on my list. Yeats, for instance.
These poems are not for the intellectual elite, but for everybody. Almost all of them used to be found on the high school English curriculum and students were richer for it.
Now that I've thought about it, I think that my top four would be "Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?", "To Autumn", "Ozymandias" and "Ulysses".
But I'm now experiencing symptoms of Repetitive Stress Syndrome from tapping away on this iPhone, so it's time to stop.
Sunday, 17 June 2012
Day 19. Limoges a Bord (22 kms)
17 June, 2012
Creeping like snail unwillingly to... Flavignac
I was sluggish again today and was still in Limoges at nine o'clock. It even crossed my mind to spend an extra day there, but then I thought of my dingy little hotel and decided to move on. The markets were open early so I bought my croissants and had my first coffee. It took me a while to get out of town.
It is interesting how all over the world the local inhabitants enjoy giving directions to strangers. It may even provide more pleasure to the giver than the receiver of directions. People give me detailed instructions, study my map, tell me about their visit to Canada, and even take me where I want to go.
And on the subject of kindness and generosity, at the bar where I stopped for a second coffee, still in Limoges, the patron brought me out a complimentary crepe to go with it. He was Moroccan, and impressed with the fact that I was from Canada. "Morocco, Canada. Like this!" he said with a big thumbs up. Either our present government hasn't totally destroyed our international reputation or he's not quite up with our present policies.
I plodded along the road all day. In the afternoon, the sun came out and I walked along a shady lane past a series of water mills. In some cases the water was still flowing swiftly down the leet and I thought it would be possible to install a turbine and generate electricity.
Towards the end of the day I passed a chateau. You could probably buy it for the cost of a house in Victoria, but then it would cost the same amount each month to maintain it.
So I never made it to Flavignac. I couldn't face the prospect of a rudimentary gite and the can of canard confit which I've been carrying around for ten days now. (I know that if I dump it I will suddenly find myself in a town where I can't get any food.) I'm staying in a B & B at Bord, a hamlet about ten kilometres short of the scheduled stop. So I have a bit to make up.
Once again, the barn which formed part of the same building as the farmhouse, has been converted into quarters for guests. Here's a picture.
Creeping like snail unwillingly to... Flavignac
I was sluggish again today and was still in Limoges at nine o'clock. It even crossed my mind to spend an extra day there, but then I thought of my dingy little hotel and decided to move on. The markets were open early so I bought my croissants and had my first coffee. It took me a while to get out of town.
It is interesting how all over the world the local inhabitants enjoy giving directions to strangers. It may even provide more pleasure to the giver than the receiver of directions. People give me detailed instructions, study my map, tell me about their visit to Canada, and even take me where I want to go.
And on the subject of kindness and generosity, at the bar where I stopped for a second coffee, still in Limoges, the patron brought me out a complimentary crepe to go with it. He was Moroccan, and impressed with the fact that I was from Canada. "Morocco, Canada. Like this!" he said with a big thumbs up. Either our present government hasn't totally destroyed our international reputation or he's not quite up with our present policies.
I plodded along the road all day. In the afternoon, the sun came out and I walked along a shady lane past a series of water mills. In some cases the water was still flowing swiftly down the leet and I thought it would be possible to install a turbine and generate electricity.
Towards the end of the day I passed a chateau. You could probably buy it for the cost of a house in Victoria, but then it would cost the same amount each month to maintain it.
So I never made it to Flavignac. I couldn't face the prospect of a rudimentary gite and the can of canard confit which I've been carrying around for ten days now. (I know that if I dump it I will suddenly find myself in a town where I can't get any food.) I'm staying in a B & B at Bord, a hamlet about ten kilometres short of the scheduled stop. So I have a bit to make up.
Once again, the barn which formed part of the same building as the farmhouse, has been converted into quarters for guests. Here's a picture.
Saturday, 16 June 2012
Day 18. Saint-Leonard-de-Noblat a Limoges (21.5 kms)
16 July, 2012
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
I woke up early this morning and was having coffee in the square just after seven, with the sounds of preparation for commerce all around me. Vans were unloading and vendors were setting up shop. Next to me was a fruit stall; opposite, oysters and fish. People were leaving the boulangerie with baguettes under their arm.
On leaving Saint-Leonard I walked across a Roman bridge. Roman legions had crossed here almost two thousand years ago. And these bridges can be found all over Europe. They survive when the modern highway bypasses an old village and the bridge is left intact. In something of an understatement this one was called "Le Vieux Pont".
Then I passed a stretch of houses which were almost literally in the river. (See picture below.) Water ran in front and behind. I bet you could buy one for a song.
After that I ambled along, hoping for a cup of coffee at each village I passed. I was out of luck. I arrived in Limoges about two-thirty, and have found a room in a very cheap hotel. I stayed at a hotel like this in Paris once, and I was disturbed by what sounded like a murder in the hotel which abutted onto the one where I was staying. I called the concierge, but he refused to do anything. So far, all is calm here.
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
I woke up early this morning and was having coffee in the square just after seven, with the sounds of preparation for commerce all around me. Vans were unloading and vendors were setting up shop. Next to me was a fruit stall; opposite, oysters and fish. People were leaving the boulangerie with baguettes under their arm.
On leaving Saint-Leonard I walked across a Roman bridge. Roman legions had crossed here almost two thousand years ago. And these bridges can be found all over Europe. They survive when the modern highway bypasses an old village and the bridge is left intact. In something of an understatement this one was called "Le Vieux Pont".
Then I passed a stretch of houses which were almost literally in the river. (See picture below.) Water ran in front and behind. I bet you could buy one for a song.
After that I ambled along, hoping for a cup of coffee at each village I passed. I was out of luck. I arrived in Limoges about two-thirty, and have found a room in a very cheap hotel. I stayed at a hotel like this in Paris once, and I was disturbed by what sounded like a murder in the hotel which abutted onto the one where I was staying. I called the concierge, but he refused to do anything. So far, all is calm here.
Friday, 15 June 2012
Day 17. Les Bilanges a Saint-Leonard-de-Noblat (24 kms)
15 June, 2012
It is the bright day that brings forth the adder
I have met a few more pilgrims. At the gite last night was a Frenchman with his porter, that is, his wife, who was following him with their car and carrying his stuff. They would meet up each evening at a bed and breakfast. I just saw him again inside the church at Saint-Leonard.
And this afternoon I met a French couple who almost stepped on a snake. They didn't know whether it was an adder, but they said it reared up quite threateningly. Since then, I've been on the lookout.
When I was walking the Pennine Way, I was warned to be careful when climbing over dry stone walls. The adders liked to come out and sun themselves. I almost stepped on one on a stone in Cornwall. Shakespeare knew what he was talking about.
For the last ten kilometres yesterday afternoon, and much of today, I have been walking along the main road. To relieve the monotony, I march like an automaton and lose myself in my thoughts. Of course I have to be ready to leap off the road into the nettles or brambles or electric fence if I'm threatened by a car.
I have been thinking about an article in the Guardian sent to me by my friend Juliet in response to my post about the lines from my mother's poetry book. It seems that Michael Grove, the education secretary in the UK, wants to introduce a rigorous new curriculum for primary school students, with greater emphasis on spelling, grammar and phonics. It sounds like the curriculum in place 60 years ago!
What really interested me is that under this new curriculum, children will be expected to learn poetry by heart and recite it. It's an idea, surely, that few will disagree with.
I remember having to recite a poem to the class in Standard Four at East Claremont Practising School, "Prac" as we called it. I chose a poem which must have surprised the teacher even then, just after the war. I say it now with great pleasure.
There's a breathless hush in the close tonight,
Ten to make and the match to win.
A bumping pitch and a blinding light,
An hour to play and the last man in.
With its jingoistic theme and British sentiments, I could never teach it to my own students, but I often quoted part of the second verse as a fine example of alliteration and assonance. Listen to the d's and r's and the repetition of other vowels and consonants.
The sand of the desert is sodden red,
Red with the wreck of the square that broke.
The Gatling's jammed and the colonel dead,
And the regiment blind with dust and smoke.
There are many poems which are fun to say aloud. Whether it's
James James Morrison Morrison, Weatherby George Dupree...
or
And the highway man came riding, riding, riding,
Up to the old inn door...
or any of those other great-sounding classics of rhyme, rhythm and repetition, there is something for every age, and most children will enjoy the experience of reciting the poem aloud, and will remember it forever.
Along the way I pass many religious symbols that must have been full of meaning to travellers of yore: crosses, shrines, cairns, and of course the churches, in which every pilgrim would have said a prayer. Today in the woods I passed a curious but spectacular pilgrim's welcome. "Ultreia" is the traditional pilgrim's greeting and encouragement. (See picture below.)
I am now in Saint-Leonard-de-Noblat, an unspoiled medieval town with winding streets, a huge church, and few tourists.
It is the bright day that brings forth the adder
I have met a few more pilgrims. At the gite last night was a Frenchman with his porter, that is, his wife, who was following him with their car and carrying his stuff. They would meet up each evening at a bed and breakfast. I just saw him again inside the church at Saint-Leonard.
And this afternoon I met a French couple who almost stepped on a snake. They didn't know whether it was an adder, but they said it reared up quite threateningly. Since then, I've been on the lookout.
When I was walking the Pennine Way, I was warned to be careful when climbing over dry stone walls. The adders liked to come out and sun themselves. I almost stepped on one on a stone in Cornwall. Shakespeare knew what he was talking about.
For the last ten kilometres yesterday afternoon, and much of today, I have been walking along the main road. To relieve the monotony, I march like an automaton and lose myself in my thoughts. Of course I have to be ready to leap off the road into the nettles or brambles or electric fence if I'm threatened by a car.
I have been thinking about an article in the Guardian sent to me by my friend Juliet in response to my post about the lines from my mother's poetry book. It seems that Michael Grove, the education secretary in the UK, wants to introduce a rigorous new curriculum for primary school students, with greater emphasis on spelling, grammar and phonics. It sounds like the curriculum in place 60 years ago!
What really interested me is that under this new curriculum, children will be expected to learn poetry by heart and recite it. It's an idea, surely, that few will disagree with.
I remember having to recite a poem to the class in Standard Four at East Claremont Practising School, "Prac" as we called it. I chose a poem which must have surprised the teacher even then, just after the war. I say it now with great pleasure.
There's a breathless hush in the close tonight,
Ten to make and the match to win.
A bumping pitch and a blinding light,
An hour to play and the last man in.
With its jingoistic theme and British sentiments, I could never teach it to my own students, but I often quoted part of the second verse as a fine example of alliteration and assonance. Listen to the d's and r's and the repetition of other vowels and consonants.
The sand of the desert is sodden red,
Red with the wreck of the square that broke.
The Gatling's jammed and the colonel dead,
And the regiment blind with dust and smoke.
There are many poems which are fun to say aloud. Whether it's
James James Morrison Morrison, Weatherby George Dupree...
or
And the highway man came riding, riding, riding,
Up to the old inn door...
or any of those other great-sounding classics of rhyme, rhythm and repetition, there is something for every age, and most children will enjoy the experience of reciting the poem aloud, and will remember it forever.
Along the way I pass many religious symbols that must have been full of meaning to travellers of yore: crosses, shrines, cairns, and of course the churches, in which every pilgrim would have said a prayer. Today in the woods I passed a curious but spectacular pilgrim's welcome. "Ultreia" is the traditional pilgrim's greeting and encouragement. (See picture below.)
I am now in Saint-Leonard-de-Noblat, an unspoiled medieval town with winding streets, a huge church, and few tourists.
Wednesday, 13 June 2012
Day 16. Benevent-l'Abbaye aux Bilanges (28 kms)
14 June, 2012
The bliss of solitude
Not a soul on the path today. Only the bleating of the lambs and the lowing of the cows and the song of the birds in the woods.
At last the weather was fine -- cool but sunny. I ambled along, falling into the rhythm of the road and enjoying the pleasure of the moment. I felt no pressure to arrive somewhere to avoid being caught in a shower of rain. What a difference the weather makes!
Again, the gite where I stayed last night was run by a couple of Brits. They offer a demi-pension, tarrif pelerin, but I hadn't given her enough warning for a meal. It's a nice place with a lovely garden with a view of the abbey church. (See picture below.)
He was a civil engineer, and he had plenty of work in the area helping ex-pats overcome their misfortunes arising from foolish or hasty house-buying. He mentioned some clients who had forgotten to drain all the water out of their pipes when they went back to their principal residence in England, and who came back to France in February to find that all their toilets had exploded. Australians were prone to folly as well, he said, buying houses on the Internet at fantastic prices, sight unseen, and arriving to find they were next to the sewage lagoon.
He was from the north country, and had a disconcerting habit of beginning his speech quite loudly and then fading away to nothing. Pardon, I would say, and he would begin again, but soon fade to a whisper, looking at me intensely, his lips moving but saying nothing. Dickens could have made much of him.
The gite itself was an annex which he had refurbished a couple of years ago. Previously, he said, it had been a small leather factory, and there had been places for ten workers. It had been one of the many little industries which supported the town. And, he said, there had once been 60 children living on the street. Now there were none. Sad!
After a short walk through the woods, I arrived at the village of Marsac, and sitting in the sun I drank my morning coffee.
Later, I sat on a bench outside the church in the hamlet of Arrenes. There was no one there, but on the monument aux morts of the Great War were nineteen names, including three sets of brothers, with three lost from one family. The village must have lost almost half its young men in that war. And there were more names on that memorial than inhabitants today.
After a long and vigorous climb up a stony path in the woods, I ate lunch beside another war memorial in front of the squat church of Saint-Goussaud. This was literally the high point of the day. From there it was downhill to Chatelus-le-Marcheix.
Half-way down, at a place where three roads met, a bird shat on me. Just a tiny speck of orange. I took it as a sign to go straight ahead. An aeroplane was flying overhead as well, so I hoped they weren't emptying out the slops.
I had been contemplating bypassing this evening's recommended stop, and taking a short cut along the road to get a start on tomorrow's walk, but now I decided I would join the Hollanders at the gite at Chatelus-le-Marcheix and consume the can of emergency food I had been carrying around for about a week.
I walked down through the woods into Chatelus, only to find that the bottom bunks at the gite were all taken.
Now when I was young and nimble, I found it fun to sleep in the upper bunk, but now that I'm older I try to avoid it. Getting up in the night for a pee, I run the risk of falling off or stepping on a tender part of the person below.
I decided to walk on another ten kilometres to Les Bilanges. And I'm glad I did.
I'm staying in a very comfortable gite in a converted barn at La Besse Haut about a kilometre off the track, just short of Les Bilanges. La proprietaire est gentille, the food is very good, and the pilgrim's rate for demi-pension is 29 euros.
The bliss of solitude
Not a soul on the path today. Only the bleating of the lambs and the lowing of the cows and the song of the birds in the woods.
At last the weather was fine -- cool but sunny. I ambled along, falling into the rhythm of the road and enjoying the pleasure of the moment. I felt no pressure to arrive somewhere to avoid being caught in a shower of rain. What a difference the weather makes!
Again, the gite where I stayed last night was run by a couple of Brits. They offer a demi-pension, tarrif pelerin, but I hadn't given her enough warning for a meal. It's a nice place with a lovely garden with a view of the abbey church. (See picture below.)
He was a civil engineer, and he had plenty of work in the area helping ex-pats overcome their misfortunes arising from foolish or hasty house-buying. He mentioned some clients who had forgotten to drain all the water out of their pipes when they went back to their principal residence in England, and who came back to France in February to find that all their toilets had exploded. Australians were prone to folly as well, he said, buying houses on the Internet at fantastic prices, sight unseen, and arriving to find they were next to the sewage lagoon.
He was from the north country, and had a disconcerting habit of beginning his speech quite loudly and then fading away to nothing. Pardon, I would say, and he would begin again, but soon fade to a whisper, looking at me intensely, his lips moving but saying nothing. Dickens could have made much of him.
The gite itself was an annex which he had refurbished a couple of years ago. Previously, he said, it had been a small leather factory, and there had been places for ten workers. It had been one of the many little industries which supported the town. And, he said, there had once been 60 children living on the street. Now there were none. Sad!
After a short walk through the woods, I arrived at the village of Marsac, and sitting in the sun I drank my morning coffee.
Later, I sat on a bench outside the church in the hamlet of Arrenes. There was no one there, but on the monument aux morts of the Great War were nineteen names, including three sets of brothers, with three lost from one family. The village must have lost almost half its young men in that war. And there were more names on that memorial than inhabitants today.
After a long and vigorous climb up a stony path in the woods, I ate lunch beside another war memorial in front of the squat church of Saint-Goussaud. This was literally the high point of the day. From there it was downhill to Chatelus-le-Marcheix.
Half-way down, at a place where three roads met, a bird shat on me. Just a tiny speck of orange. I took it as a sign to go straight ahead. An aeroplane was flying overhead as well, so I hoped they weren't emptying out the slops.
I had been contemplating bypassing this evening's recommended stop, and taking a short cut along the road to get a start on tomorrow's walk, but now I decided I would join the Hollanders at the gite at Chatelus-le-Marcheix and consume the can of emergency food I had been carrying around for about a week.
I walked down through the woods into Chatelus, only to find that the bottom bunks at the gite were all taken.
Now when I was young and nimble, I found it fun to sleep in the upper bunk, but now that I'm older I try to avoid it. Getting up in the night for a pee, I run the risk of falling off or stepping on a tender part of the person below.
I decided to walk on another ten kilometres to Les Bilanges. And I'm glad I did.
I'm staying in a very comfortable gite in a converted barn at La Besse Haut about a kilometre off the track, just short of Les Bilanges. La proprietaire est gentille, the food is very good, and the pilgrim's rate for demi-pension is 29 euros.
Tuesday, 12 June 2012
Day 15. La Souterraine a Benevent-l'Abbaye (21 kms)
13 June, 2012
Fear no more the heat of the sun
It was 10 degrees when I woke, and the high today was 16. And it rained on and off. So I'm not suffering from heatstroke.
The meal last night at Maison Número Neuf was excellent. I ate dinner with an affluent British couple. We discussed such topics as how the world today would be so different had Al Gore become president.
Boots. I know that some of you are passionately interested in hiking footwear. What am I wearing on my feet and why? In the weeks leading up to my walk, I agonised over what to wear. I wore my Asolos last year. They are expensive, medium-weight leather boots, and I was mighty pleased with them. They made the rough places plain and they kept out the water. But I did develop shin splints on the 25th day, and I wondered whether lighter, softer-soled boots might lessen the pounding which probably caused the problem. So I bought a pair of light-weight Keen Gypsums. The trouble is that the soles are so soft that they may not last the distance.
I took both pairs to Winnipeg, from whence I was to fly to France, and delayed my decision until the very last moment. About to leave, I noticed that one of the soles of the Asolos was fraying at the edges. I had worn them down quite a bit at the heels last year, but this was something new. So I took the Keens.
Strange, though. My old Zamberlans served me well on all those trails in Britain, and a few Rocky Mountain trips, and the Camino and the Chemin du Puy before they fell apart.
So, I'm wearing my Keens and I'm not too happy with them. I've developed blisters, and the membrane isn't keeping out the water. For the first time in my life I had to put newspaper in my boots last night to dry them. In future it's back to leather boots for me. Enough of boots.
Just before Saint-Priest-la-Feuille this morning, I made a detour to see a dolmen, an ancient set of stones, of the same vintage as Stonehenge. Unlike Stonehenge they stood alone without protective barrier or throngs of gaping tourists. (I was fortunate enough to visit Stonehenge with a party of school kids back in the sixties when it was still possible to clamber over the stones.)
I stood in that lonely spot and imagined the Druids sacrificing an animal, burying their dead, or worshipping the sun. Nobody really knows what the stones were for. A huge hemispherical boulder sat atop five standing stones, three of which were supporting it, the other two having sunk a little into the ground. A sixth stone had long since fallen over. The result was that the boulder was supported only on one side of its circular base, and must have been close to its tipping point. (See picture below.)
I thought about how lucky I was to be standing there at all. So many of my ancestors' peers would have been sacrificed, lanced, clubbed,stabbed, hanged, boiled in oil, drawn and quartered, or fallen prey to the Black Death or some other contagion before they could beget progeny.
At eleven o'clock the rain came down. I stood on one leg, then the other, on a dry spot under a tree at the side of the D10, pulling on my rain gear. At Chamborand, the church was open so I took shelter and had lunch.
After that it was an easy walk into Benevent-l'Abbaye. I arrived at two o'clock.
The Holland-Germany soccer match is on tonight. The Hollanders are watching it on their iPad by wifi from a local bar. When the bar closes, they will sit outside and watch. I hope their team wins.
Fear no more the heat of the sun
It was 10 degrees when I woke, and the high today was 16. And it rained on and off. So I'm not suffering from heatstroke.
The meal last night at Maison Número Neuf was excellent. I ate dinner with an affluent British couple. We discussed such topics as how the world today would be so different had Al Gore become president.
Boots. I know that some of you are passionately interested in hiking footwear. What am I wearing on my feet and why? In the weeks leading up to my walk, I agonised over what to wear. I wore my Asolos last year. They are expensive, medium-weight leather boots, and I was mighty pleased with them. They made the rough places plain and they kept out the water. But I did develop shin splints on the 25th day, and I wondered whether lighter, softer-soled boots might lessen the pounding which probably caused the problem. So I bought a pair of light-weight Keen Gypsums. The trouble is that the soles are so soft that they may not last the distance.
I took both pairs to Winnipeg, from whence I was to fly to France, and delayed my decision until the very last moment. About to leave, I noticed that one of the soles of the Asolos was fraying at the edges. I had worn them down quite a bit at the heels last year, but this was something new. So I took the Keens.
Strange, though. My old Zamberlans served me well on all those trails in Britain, and a few Rocky Mountain trips, and the Camino and the Chemin du Puy before they fell apart.
So, I'm wearing my Keens and I'm not too happy with them. I've developed blisters, and the membrane isn't keeping out the water. For the first time in my life I had to put newspaper in my boots last night to dry them. In future it's back to leather boots for me. Enough of boots.
Just before Saint-Priest-la-Feuille this morning, I made a detour to see a dolmen, an ancient set of stones, of the same vintage as Stonehenge. Unlike Stonehenge they stood alone without protective barrier or throngs of gaping tourists. (I was fortunate enough to visit Stonehenge with a party of school kids back in the sixties when it was still possible to clamber over the stones.)
I stood in that lonely spot and imagined the Druids sacrificing an animal, burying their dead, or worshipping the sun. Nobody really knows what the stones were for. A huge hemispherical boulder sat atop five standing stones, three of which were supporting it, the other two having sunk a little into the ground. A sixth stone had long since fallen over. The result was that the boulder was supported only on one side of its circular base, and must have been close to its tipping point. (See picture below.)
I thought about how lucky I was to be standing there at all. So many of my ancestors' peers would have been sacrificed, lanced, clubbed,stabbed, hanged, boiled in oil, drawn and quartered, or fallen prey to the Black Death or some other contagion before they could beget progeny.
At eleven o'clock the rain came down. I stood on one leg, then the other, on a dry spot under a tree at the side of the D10, pulling on my rain gear. At Chamborand, the church was open so I took shelter and had lunch.
After that it was an easy walk into Benevent-l'Abbaye. I arrived at two o'clock.
The Holland-Germany soccer match is on tonight. The Hollanders are watching it on their iPad by wifi from a local bar. When the bar closes, they will sit outside and watch. I hope their team wins.
Monday, 11 June 2012
Day 14. Crozant a La Souterraine (24.5 kms)
12 June, 2012
We cursed through sludge
As I sat in the bar last night, two of the clients were sitting with their laptops. And I was connected to wifi with my iPhone. I worked out how to get from Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port to Cannes by train. How times have changed!
I remember that on my first walk, the Coast to Coast, I had to ask a friend who was visiting Britain before me to find out the times and connections to get a train from Manchester Airport to St. Bee's Head. Now I can do it all on line.
Daniel, one of the pilgrims from Holland, carries an iPad instead of the guide book. He has scanned all the pages in, and studies it carefully the night before. Patrick carried one as well. He used it to take photos, of surprisingly good quality. To anyone seeing him from a distance, he must have looked like a water diviner as he walked about the countryside holding this rectangular object in front of him.
The Dutchmen are looking forward to watching a soccer match between Holland and Germany. When I detected a certain hostility in their tone, I shared Patrick's story about the Germans and the bikes. They said it was one of their sayings as well. I was surprised that these sentiments lasted so long after the war. I doubt that Aussie kids still say, as we did, "You can't say 'Barleys' when the Japs are after you." (You used to say 'Barleys' to invoke a truce in a fight. But since you said it when your opponent was about to twist your arm off or punch your head in, it was a usually a plea for mercy or a cry of surrender.)
Rain was threatening again this morning so I put on my rain pants as well as my jacket. (It was a double clammy!)
Every so often you come upon a stretch of the trail that makes up for all of the road walking. Such was the walk this morning along the river. I left Crozant and followed the trail down into the valley. The sound of rushing water grew louder as I descended. Soon I arrived at the Sedelle which was in full spate after all the rain we'd been having. I walked for a couple of kilometres along the bank. Along the path were enamelled paintings by artists of the "Crozant School" who had been inspired by scenes along the river.
I walked by a mill and its leet (see picture below), and launched into,
Down by the old mill stream,
Where I first met you,
With your eyes of blue,
Dressed in gingham too.
O to be sweet sixteen again!
I stopped at La Chapelle-Baloue for a coffee. I was hesitating, but then the sun came out and I saw a nice inviting table on the patio. The cafe, in a large old house, was run by an English woman. She, too, commiserated about the weather. It turned out that she ran a gite as well and offered meals. It looked a nice place. I wished I'd walked on last night and stayed there. Two more Poms arrived. One of them ran after me when I headed off in the wrong direction.
I arrived at Saint-Germain-Beaupre hoping to find a bakery open. No such luck. I sat down on a bench in front of the church and ate a stale crust from yesterday.
Just before Saint-Agnant-de-Versillat I crossed the Sedelle again. There, it was a little stream.
And then, the rain, which had been holding off all day, came down in buckets, or as the Normans say, comme les vaches qui pissent. I trudged along a narrow, muddy path which was now awash. As I slipped in the sludge, I cursed my Keen boots which were now taking in water. So much for their own type of "Gortex"!
I should have worn my leather boots, my Asolos or my Mendels. They would have kept the water out. The Dutch are both wearing Mendels. But, they said, they didn't ask for their bikes back when they bought them.
I arrived in La Souterraine at three-thirty, cold and wet. I am staying at Maison Numero Neuf, which offers a pilgrim's rate.
We cursed through sludge
As I sat in the bar last night, two of the clients were sitting with their laptops. And I was connected to wifi with my iPhone. I worked out how to get from Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port to Cannes by train. How times have changed!
I remember that on my first walk, the Coast to Coast, I had to ask a friend who was visiting Britain before me to find out the times and connections to get a train from Manchester Airport to St. Bee's Head. Now I can do it all on line.
Daniel, one of the pilgrims from Holland, carries an iPad instead of the guide book. He has scanned all the pages in, and studies it carefully the night before. Patrick carried one as well. He used it to take photos, of surprisingly good quality. To anyone seeing him from a distance, he must have looked like a water diviner as he walked about the countryside holding this rectangular object in front of him.
The Dutchmen are looking forward to watching a soccer match between Holland and Germany. When I detected a certain hostility in their tone, I shared Patrick's story about the Germans and the bikes. They said it was one of their sayings as well. I was surprised that these sentiments lasted so long after the war. I doubt that Aussie kids still say, as we did, "You can't say 'Barleys' when the Japs are after you." (You used to say 'Barleys' to invoke a truce in a fight. But since you said it when your opponent was about to twist your arm off or punch your head in, it was a usually a plea for mercy or a cry of surrender.)
Rain was threatening again this morning so I put on my rain pants as well as my jacket. (It was a double clammy!)
Every so often you come upon a stretch of the trail that makes up for all of the road walking. Such was the walk this morning along the river. I left Crozant and followed the trail down into the valley. The sound of rushing water grew louder as I descended. Soon I arrived at the Sedelle which was in full spate after all the rain we'd been having. I walked for a couple of kilometres along the bank. Along the path were enamelled paintings by artists of the "Crozant School" who had been inspired by scenes along the river.
I walked by a mill and its leet (see picture below), and launched into,
Down by the old mill stream,
Where I first met you,
With your eyes of blue,
Dressed in gingham too.
O to be sweet sixteen again!
I stopped at La Chapelle-Baloue for a coffee. I was hesitating, but then the sun came out and I saw a nice inviting table on the patio. The cafe, in a large old house, was run by an English woman. She, too, commiserated about the weather. It turned out that she ran a gite as well and offered meals. It looked a nice place. I wished I'd walked on last night and stayed there. Two more Poms arrived. One of them ran after me when I headed off in the wrong direction.
I arrived at Saint-Germain-Beaupre hoping to find a bakery open. No such luck. I sat down on a bench in front of the church and ate a stale crust from yesterday.
Just before Saint-Agnant-de-Versillat I crossed the Sedelle again. There, it was a little stream.
And then, the rain, which had been holding off all day, came down in buckets, or as the Normans say, comme les vaches qui pissent. I trudged along a narrow, muddy path which was now awash. As I slipped in the sludge, I cursed my Keen boots which were now taking in water. So much for their own type of "Gortex"!
I should have worn my leather boots, my Asolos or my Mendels. They would have kept the water out. The Dutch are both wearing Mendels. But, they said, they didn't ask for their bikes back when they bought them.
I arrived in La Souterraine at three-thirty, cold and wet. I am staying at Maison Numero Neuf, which offers a pilgrim's rate.
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