Day 7. Saint-Jean-le-Blanc to Beny Bocage. August 31, 2026. 18 kms

My heart leaps up when I behold

A church spire in the sky (apologies to WW).

I set out early this morning, having awoken at five o’clock. It was another windy day, and as I left town, the sun dipped between the moving clouds and lit up the landscape, first the far row of trees, and then the next, and then the next, and the fields in between, but this lighting of the landscape could only last a moment, for soon the heavy clouds prevailed. A magical moment!

I spied a couple of deer ahead of me, and when they saw me, unlike their Victoria cousins who march slowly across the street expecting the traffic to wait for them, these timid creatures frantically bounded away in opposite directions. 

And then I came upon the Mont-Saint-Michel marker, the first I had seen since starting out yesterday. This sent me down a long and leafy lane, green above and brown below, and into a valley and along a creek. This was the most pleasant stretch of the day, but when I reached the road there was no marker to be seen.

For the rest of the day I walked along the roads, passing  fields of corn, and in the afternoon, some dairy farms as well. The cows would watch with interest as I walked by. Perhaps I was relieving their boredom, as the major item of interest between milking and feeding.

It rained intermittently in the afternoon. Sometimes I could make it stop by putting on my rain coat but then it set in, and the wind was strong and driving into my face. I trudged on, head down, for several kilometres, until I spied a church spire ahead. Faint hope, but you never know, and then some more buildings, and one with a promising sign. Yes, a bar. I staggered in. “Un cafe crème,” I spluttered.

Seventy years ago, as a teenage thing, I rode my bike from Perth to Bunbury, a distance of 116 miles. Two-thirds of the way along, I stopped for a coke — ice cold, and I always remember it as the best I had ever drunk. Now it is coffee that sustains me, and the coffee I had today at Montchamp was almost as memorable.

It was a convivial bar. Everyone was shouting.  People came and went, shaking everybody’s hand as they entered, including mine. I moved outside, for the noise had become deafening. One of the tables was dry. Clouds were racing across the sky and I would sit for a few minutes in the warmth of the sun before being spattered with a few drops of rain. It was delightfully calm until a couple of smokers moved outside, and a kid raced up the street on a dreaded two-stroke, the bane of many a French village.

Another hour’s march brought me to Beny Bocage where I am staying at an airBnB hosted by Jean who speaks French at lightning speed and keeps goats and chooks in his back yard.

Day 6. Hamars à Saint-Jean-Le-Blanc. August 30, 2026. 14 kms.

 It was a sombre morning as I set out from Hamars, the little village on the Chemin de Caen where I had ended my walk eighteen months ago, and soon the somber weather begat a very somber mood. I began on the right path, indicated by a blue balise, a symbol of the Mount Saint Michel, and followed a stony country lane down into a valley and up again to meet a road where there was no indication of the chemin to follow. Or perhaps there was: a blue smudge on a post which might once have been a marker, or it might have been a blue cross indicating the direction not to go. After a few yards along the road I ventured onto a likely looking track across a field. Rain threatened.

As we were driving to Hamars from Ouistreham this morning, we talked about the role of chance in our lives, how we were together in the car at that moment because of a chance meeting in Ouistreham 40 years ago. And we were here because all of our ancestors, generation after generation, had been the lucky ones among their siblings to survive pestilence and plague, war and famine.

And just by chance, coming towards me on the path, was a group of walkers — from Ouistreham, as it happened. “You’re going back to Hamars,” they said. So I turned back to the road and after a fruitless search for a sign, I asked Apple Maps for the quickest route to walk to Saint-Jean-le Blanc.

And so I walked along country roads through fields of corn somewhat the worse for wear after the extreme heat over the summer. The cows would receive a burnt offering indeed from the maize of these corn fields.

Every so often a church spire signalled  that I was about to pass through a village. Would there be a bar or a boulangerie? No, only a church and a mairie that opened for a few hours each week. At the little village of Le Plessis-Grimoult I sat on a bench and ate my lunch. A polite little boy walked by and said bonjour. His grandmother followed. That was the extent of the village population.

After another hour’s walking, I reached Saint-Jean-le-Blanc, a full two hours earlier than I expected, because I had taken  a more direct route along the roads. 

A word about my gîte, Le Temps de Cerises: a little appartement, very comfortable, kitchen and living room downstairs, two bedrooms upstairs. My only quibble: the wifi had the longest password I have ever seen. It took me several goes.

Day 5. March 29, 2025. Evrecy to Hamars (22 km)

 

It was a glorious  day, cool but sunny. Yesterday, I wore my down jacket; today, just a light pullover.

I spent much of the day walking across, or between, fields, some with a wheat crop under way, for I was on la plaine de Caen. I walked through woods as well, along lanes, rural roads, and when I could not find a balise to save my life, I plodded the last five kilometres along the D36 into Harmars. There I waited for Dominique, kind soul, to pick me and take me back to Ouistreham.

Just in case anyone thinks I am not walking a real camino, see the evidence to the left. Perhaps not along this particular path, but pilgrims would walked to le Mont-Saint-Michel, and then continued on to join the Chemin de Tours near Poitier, on to Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port, and along the Camino Francés to Santiago.

Only one misadventure today, a misadventure with a moral! 

I was walking down a country lane when the road turned suddenly to the right. In front of me was a farm gate and on the gatepost was the balise, indicating my path across the field. Or was it? Was I instead to go right, whereupon the balise had been put on the gatepost because there was nowhere else to put it and only a fool would climb over a closed gate to enter a farmer’s field? I turned right and walked a few hundred yards to the end of the lane, hoping to find a path to the left around the field. No luck.I returned to the gate.

It was a large farm gate with three heavy horizontal bars. It was roped closed, but embedded in the ground, so I couldn’t have easily opened it anyway. I mounted the first bar, swung my leg over the top, balanced precariously, and dropped down on the other side.

I crossed the large field, and then another, but could see no way out. And then, far across

to the right, I could see, sitting on the ground, a large sign, what seemed to be a large version of the mont bleu. Escape at last, I thought, and headed across the field.  But it was a rather colourful pump.

Back across two fields to the rusty old farm gate, another climb and perilous balance, and back to the end of the lane. What had I missed?

There on the other side, in the direction I had not expected to go: a little opening and a balise.

And the moral, the lesson relearned: Never Assume. And perhaps another couple as well: Things are not always what they seem, and, Look carefully!

And as I walked across one of those large fields, alone in a wide open space, I heard the song of the larks.

There are two bird songs that I love beyond measure. One is the Australian magpie. The other is the European lark.

I saw one once, a small unassuming bird that you wouldn’t give a second glance. As I recall the photo I took, I am reminded of a small, unattractive Pekingese kind of dog, the sort that would stand a good chance in an ugly dog contest. (I hope I’m not offending any birders here.) Normally you don’t see  the larks, but hear them singing far above you as you cross a field. Some birds glide effortlessly across the sky, but the larks flutter frantically to keep aloft. How can they sing while expending so much energy? To me, their song is not one of beauty like that of the thrush or nightingale, but one of endurance, hope, a struggle to survive, and perhaps faint joy. Birds have become important national symbols. We all know what nations have adopted the eagle as their symbol. I leave you to imagine what countries might be symbolized by the lark. Sorry to wax avian, but I would visit Europe merely to hear the song of the larks.

And speaking of small, nondescript dogs, one managed to get into my photo of the daffodils.

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils. (Wordsworth)

This is the end of my walk for the time being. I hope to continue and walk across the bay to the Mont-Saint-Michel. I shall find a guide. It is one thing to misread a bus or train timetable, but quite another to miscalculate the movement of the tides.

Day 4. March 28, 2025.Caen to Evrecy. 23 kms.

 

I was reminded  of my age this morning. “Laissez une place pour le vieux monsieur,” shouted the bus driver to the students on board. Well, she didn’t actually say “vieux” but her tone implied it.

I managed to find a place surrounded by seven students, each glued to her phone. To be fair, two of the students exchanged a word on the way to Caen. 

It’s a rather ironic, isn’t it, the name, because smart phones probably make us dumber. If anyone is around to write “The Decline and Fall of Human Civilization” then Smart Phones will warrant a chapter. And a major theme will be the role of AI. I know it’s hypocritical to rant since I am relying on a Smart Phone app to follow the trail. 

The express bus dropped me at Église Saint-Pierre, on the edge of the city centre, and a tram took me to La Gare SNCF where I had ended yesterday.

I found my starting point at an old church at the beginning of a very old street. Nearby was the waymark, la balise, for the Chemin de Caen, this particular path of the Chemins du Mont-Saint-Michel. Henceforth, I would be following, not the yellow arrow, but le Mont bleu. From time to time I would encounter a colourful bewilderment of balises: red and white for the grandes randonnés, the network of long-distance walks across France, yellow for local ramblers’ trails, and blue for my path.

Yesterday was easy, flat and monotonous. Today was more undulating and more interesting. I crossed and recrossed the river, passed a race course, walked along minor roads, climbed a few slopes, ambled through the woods, and passed through a few villages. No café, though, I would have had to make a detour. Finally, I was out of the woods and traversed a couple of fields to find a cycling path that led into Evrecy.

We have a dear friend, Agnés, in Ouistreham who conducts the community choir. When I mentioned the difficulty of getting back to Ouistreham by bus and returning to Evrecy the next morning to resume walking, she immediately phoned one of her choristers and arranged a bed for me in Evrecy. That is where I am staying tonight. Quelle gentillesse!

Day 3. March 27, 2025. Ouistreham to Caen. 15 kms

Pegasus Bridge (On the left is the first house liberated in France)

Why Ouistreham? Medieval pilgrims heading for Le-Mont-Saint-Michel would have crossed the Channel and landed at  the medieval port of Barfleur. Pilgrims today would probably land at Cherbourg as Barfleur is no longer a port,, but I chose to walk via Caen because we lived for a year at the little village of Ouistreham. In a sense, I would be following the tradition of walking from home, a former home.

Sword Beach, the first of the landing beaches, begins at Ouistreham. Today, the Brittany Ferries port is here, at the mouth of the canal which takes freighters up to the port of Caen. For someone who prefers level ground, this was the easiest of walks, along the canal from Ouistreham to Caen.

Across the canal I noticed the balls of mistletoe in the trees that lined the opposite bank. Anyone wishing to steal a kiss from a friend would not have to wait until Christmas, but could simply suggest a stroll along the canal.

Mistletoe in the trees along the canal from Ouistreham to Caen

Soon I arrived at the bridge across the canal at Bénouville, better known as Pegasus Bridge. It was here on the night of June 5, 1944, that Major John Howard captured the bridge with a company of British paratroopers to prevent German reinforcements from crossing the canal to reach the landing beaches. Gone, however is the restaurant, la Peniche, formerly on a barge just before the bridge. Forty years ago on June 6 we were at the restaurant when we encountered the former British and German commanders eating at an adjacent table, their practice every anniversary. There’s a moral here, or several.

When the original bridge was failing, public pressure forced the engineers to build a replica, rather than a sleek replacement. The old bridge lies in the grounds of the nearby museum. Pegasus Bridge is a bridge with little artistic merit but a lot of history

I walked on to Caen. What a bustle of activity! In the distance a couple of ships were loading. In the foreground, a school of kayakers energetically circled their instructor. Further off another line of kids were learning to sail in tiny little boats. Fishermen were casting their lines without any evident success. 

Caen is the city of William the Conqueror, the Duke of Normandy, who invaded England in 1066 and shot King Harold in the eye with an arrow. We have William to thank for 10,000 French words which found a home in our English language. After the Norman conquest, French was the official language of England for almost 300 years, and was spoken by the nobility. The ordinary people, however, continued to speak Anglo-Saxon or old English. The Normans may have conquered the people, but the English language prevailed. A curious linguistic relic of that time is our different vocabulary for animals on the hoof and their meat on the plate. French words survive for the meat (beef, veal, pork), for it was eaten by the French nobility, and Saxon words (cow, calf, pig) for the animals, for the peasants looked after them. Words are history.

Day 2. March 26, 2025. Bishops Waltham to Portsmouth Ferry Terminal. 27 kms

 

Very historic inn, the Crown at Bishops Waltham. The beams sag, and the supporting posts are so old and worm-eaten that I feared for my safety until I realized that the real work was being done by later partitioning walls, and that the wooden posts had been retired, as it were. 

One of Crown’s famous guests was Admiral Villeneuve, who commanded the French fleet at the Battle of Waterloo. He was among 200 French prisoners who were sent to Bishops Waltham after the French defeat. The bedrooms are named after ships in the fleet. I was in the Intrépide, a ship I remember from reading Patric O’Brian.

After my sorry experience of road walking, I did today what I should have done yesterday: I consulted the British Pilgrimage Trust (a valuable source for English pilgrimages) for information about the Pilgrim’s Trail — Winchester to Portsmouth. There I found a map of the trail which could very conveniently be loaded onto Google Maps on my phone.

The app led me on a little side road out of town where I was horrified to see the sidewalk disappearing in front of me, without even a verge I could leap onto to escape oncoming cars. But then to my left I noticed the sign “Public Footpath”. And on the post was a waymarker: Hampshire Millenium Pilgrim’s Trail. And thither my app led me. 

The path stretched across an open field with majestic oaks silhouetted against the sky. Dogs were running wild, their masters and mistresses lagging behind. Dog owners are always willing to pass the time of day. “It’s too hot,” said one, surprisingly for it was only about ten degrees. But then she was English. 

And so I ventured across fields, over stiles, through gates, over little foot bridges, down country lanes, through woods, revelling in the beauty of nature.

Found all over England, these public footpaths, and the less common bridle ways, are ancient paths connecting villages and hamlets, and remain legal rights of way, providing they are used. Local ramblers’ societies diligently walk them to keep them open. When they have fallen into disuse and cross a  field, farmers have been known to keep a bull in the paddock to discourage walkers. Some of the footpaths I saw today were well trodden; others were overgrown and difficult to pass.

It would have been impossible to follow the trail without the app. Indicating only the beginnings of footpaths, the waymarkers were not ubiquitous like the yellow arrow. And in the forest of Bere, trails spun off in every direction, unsignposted.

In this forest, the former plain-language editor in me was delighted to see a sign in the plainest of English.

Clean up your dog’s poo.

Active voice, 2nd person. Short and simple words. A short and simple sentence.  So different from one I remember in Victoria:

Excrement deposited by your dog must be removed. 

My idyllic ramble came to an end at the little village of Southwick, where the allied commanders had developed their plans for D Day. After that it was serious road walking along the bitumen when I could, and hopping on to the verge to escape the traffic when I couldn’t. I developed a dance step: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, step up, step down, one, two, three, four, etc. 

Little need be said about the last ten kilometres through the suburbs of Portsmouth and on to the ferry port, a steady plod along city streets, navigating with difficulty various underpasses to avoid motorways. The pedestrian does not come first in Portsmouth.

Tomorrow morning I disembark in the little village of Ouistreham, where we spent a year in the nineteen eighties.

Day 1. Winchester to Bishops Waltham. March 25, 2025. 19 kms

 

A host of goldens

I ate a very English breakfast this morning at the Wykeham Arms: sausage (probably one of those that the Europeans wanted to meddle with, that, among other things, led to Brexit), bacon, fried eggs, baked beans, toast and marmalade, along with an apology for the absence of the black pud. that was promised on the menu.

The day began promisingly enough, along the Camino Ingles beside a gentle brook. But, alas, this ended in a B road and then another, which eventually led me into Bishops Waltham. It was not the stroll through the English countryside I was hoping for. But there were lots of daffodils, and I could hear the birds singing between the whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, whoosh of passing vehicles.

I walked through the village of Lower Upham, and wondered if there was an Upper Upham. I knew a few people who belonged there.

Tramp, tramp, tramp along the highway, probably more road walking than I’ve ever done before. Finally, I arrived at the Crown Hotel in Bishops Waltham

I was curious about the Camino Ingles which I followed for a while. This one led to Southampton, whence the English pilgrims would have sailed to A Coruña to follow the Camino Ingles in Spain. But they would have sailed from other English ports as well: Plymouth, Falmouth, and others. I, however, am heading for Portsmouth, whence pilgrims would have sailed to the medieval port of Barfleur, and then on to le-Mont-Saint-Michel, and perhaps on to Santiago. Like them, I am un miquelot, but I am taking the ferry to Ouistreham, the port of Caen in Normandy.