Shades of the prison house
Begin to close upon the growing boy (Wordsworth)
Yes, that’s me, walking down a sunken lane typical of the Bocage region in Normandy. These old rights of way are bordered by hedges and sunk below the level of the neighbouring fields. According to Jean, my host at the gîte, they were constructed in medieval times by the paysans who would dig down to solid ground to provide a road for their masters’ horses and carts. It became their responsibility to keep the road open by heaping the dirt high on either side. And they didn’t want to look bad. Imagine if their stretch of the lane was blocked!
Jean accompanied me for a few kilometres along the lane, and then pointed me in the right direction to the only village with a bar en route.
After seven kilometres I arrived at the village of Etouvy to the sound of a hundred children at the elementary schoolyard screaming and running madly in every direction. Usually in a schoolyard at playtime, as well as the kids running around you see smaller groups strolling about, and one or two loners, but not here. Perhaps they were excited to be back at school. Or not. Whatever their motivation, they were happy, energized kids, every one of them. I refrain from commenting on electronic distractions.
I went into the bar for my usual café creme, for this was the only café en route, and then, as I left, occurred one of those petits contretemps that can throw the best laid plans astray.
I turned on my phone to consult the map and I found that I had no Internet connection. Bloody hell, I thought I’ve run out of data. But how can I get some more if I can’t connect with my mobile phone provider. I had to find Wi-Fi.
I returned to the bar. No luck. I tried the boulangerie. No luck. I walked half a kilometre to the mairie. Not open. I tried the rec centre. Not open. I returned to the centre. My only other option was a beauty salon, and there I found two delightful women who were only too anxious to help. First, they had to find the password, and when they succeeded after ten minutes of searching, it was about 300 characters long. I tried. No luck, so one of the ladies did it for me and I was able to contact my provider. But I wasn’t out of data at all. I had loads left, so I did what I should have done in the first place: I turned off my phone and turned it on again, and lo and behold I had an Internet connection. The moral of the story is not hard to find. I said to the kind ladies if I had any hair, I would let them cut it in recompense.
During our conversation, the ladies at the salon had wondered if I was walking along la voie verte. No, I said, I will be trying to find the Chemin de Caen. But as I walked out of town, I came upon the voie verte: a pedestrian and cycle path along a disused railway line with a sign which said Mont Saint Michel, my ultimate destination. And did it pass through Saint-Sever-Calvados, I asked a cyclist sitting on an a bench? Yes, she said. Wary of going astray, I confirmed this with everyone I passed. Yes, it goes to Vire and then, Saint-Sever. A disused railway line is the easiest path of all. No hills.
I arrived at Vire. I passed through the town and found the voie verte again. Saint-Sever-Calvados, 21 kms, said the sign. Indeed the old railway line had served Saint Sever, but it must have taken a detour to serve an important town or person along the way. I was only 10 kms from my destination by the highway so I had no choice but to walk along the road. Thus my day which had begun with a glorious hike, ended with a miserable trudge.
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