When I arrived at Genêt yesterday, I found that the walk across the bay no longer started from there, but further round the bay. Apparently the sands have shifted so now we follow a different path.
I walked for five kms from Genêts to La Pointe du Grouin de Sud where already at one o’clock many people had gathered and were eating their lunch at picnic tables. I decided not to eat my sandwich: there was no way I wanted to get caught short half way across a seven-kilometre stretch of sand with not a bush in sight.
Then occurred one of those little incidents that make life interesting. I was a little anxious about finding my guide so I asked a fellow who was selling coffee from a portable stand. This was the exchange, more or less:
“Est-ce-que vous connaissez un guide qui s’appelle Théo?”
“D’ou venez vous avec cet accent charmant?”
“Australie.”
“Bloody hell! An Aussie. How y’ goin’, mate? All right? Where ya from, mate?”
“Perth,” I said.
“Bloody sandgroper! Bloody hell, mate!”
Australians in unlikely places! We had a little chat about how we missed the maggies and the cockies and the gum trees, and then he was back to his stand. I thought about another time that I had met an Aussie on the Camino.
I was walking with an Aussie,
And we talked of many things:
Of wowsers, wankers, whingers,
Galahs and googs and gings,
Hard yakka at the Wacca,
And why the magpie sings.
Of pongers in their dongas
And bludgers on the jobs,
Of drongos from out woop woop,
Of larrikins and yobs,
Of people who are up themselves,
Like pollies and the nobs.
Of Sonny on the dunny
And Mabel up the spout,
Of bogans on the amber stuff
With chunder all about,
And finally whose turn it was
To do another shout.
I had expected to walk across sand, but it was basically slippery mud, soft mud, spongy mud or hard mud, and sometimes rock hard mud and sore on the feet. Once or twice Theo got us to jump up and down, whereupon the mud became quite watery and turned into quicksand, which he demonstrated by allowing himself to sink in up to his thighs. He managed to get himself out.
We waded across a couple of rivers, quite shallow, but with a fast lateral current. Theo told me to keep moving. I think he was a little worried that I might be swept away.
Eventually, we arrived at Mont and we scattered. I bade farewell to my guide. Then I climbed innumerable steps to la maison du pèlerin besides the Abbey.
Crossing the bay was a memorable experience, the vastness of it, the total immersion in the natural world. Well, not quite, except for Theo, and his immersion was only partial.
I mentioned yesterday that I commune with nature. I am half serious. I talk to the fellow creatures along the way: the curious cows, the capricious goats, the friendly donkeys that come to the fence to have their heads scratched, the sheep to whom I sing the chorus from Messiah, and of course, the chooks (Pook-awk-pook-pook-pook). I dont talk to the trees. Remember the song:
i talked to the trees.
That’s why they put me away.
Perhaps I have one walk left to do. When I was leaving Winchester, I came upon a marker which said Camino Ingles. I was intrigued and found that I was crossing a pilgrims’ path from Reading to Southampton. From thence they would sail to A Coruna and walk to Santiago. I would fly.
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