Day 11. Blois to Chaumont-sur-Loire. 25 kms (269)

A sad, grey day we had of it

I cannot recommend the Foyer Notre Dame de la Trinite. The breakfast consisted of a few slices of stale bread and a stale croissant. Surely someone could have walked a few yards to the bakery? And the Wifi didn't work and nobody cared. And there wasn't a socket in the room to charge my gadgets. So I cannot recommend the Foyer Notre Dame de la Trinite.

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If there's one meal that the Brits do well, it's breakfast. I can taste it now, bangers, bacon and eggs, occasionally some black pud, or some haggis if you're in Scotland, tomatoes, even some fried bread, and lots of toast and marmalade. And tea or coffee. I'm not saying it's healthy, but it tastes bloody good, and it sets you up for the day. That's why it's called the full English breakfast.

For all the superiority of French cuisine, their breakfast pales by comparison. It's as if the French have decided to throw in the towel and devote their energies to the important meals later in the day. ("Let the biftecks win the first round. We will win the rest! ") The result is a meal that needs no preparation, just a quick trip to the bakery to buy a baguette. That's why the bakery opens at seven, even on Sundays, and why the stereotypical Frenchman has a baguette under his arm.

The French breakfast, therefore, depends on the quality of its bread. So it's really bad form to serve stale bread for breakfast. Sometimes it's unavoidable, if breakfast is served before the bakery opens, for example. But then the bread is toasted. Which is the only way to eat stale bread, isn't it?

I was really disappointed in the breakfast at the Foyer. And it's no excuse to say that this was a religious establishment. You can bet those loaves in the Bible were fresh!

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As I walked by the church on the way out, I noticed a sign saying, "No begging". What would Jesus have said? Or Pope Francis?

On the path I met not a solitary soul.

I crossed the Loire, walked along the stone bed of the old tow path, and then cut across the broad plain which bordered the river, making my way between fields of barley and wheat. The sky darkened, and even the birds were subdued under the threat of rain. I passed through the hamlet of Aumone, and then stopped for a coffee in the village of Cande-sur-Beuvron. There it began, lightly at first as I raced along the final six kilometres, but then more heavily, and by the time I reached Chaumont it had become a downpour.

I was drenched, and left a puddle on the floor of the Office de Tourisme, where I popped in to find somewhere to stay. Tourists had taken all the bed and breakfasts, and I was lucky to get the second last room of the hotel.

The rain has continued non-stop since I arrived, so I've decided to give the chateau a miss.

I decided to wear leather this year. Last year I wore Keens Gypsums, and got blisters and wet feet. So I bought a new pair of Zamberlans, and today my feet were dry. And they were solid on the stony path. And so far, no blisters.

Day 10. Suevres to Blois. 16 kms (244)

It is a beauteous morning calm and free

I like these cheap hotels, but some people wouldn't. They are very basic, and there's always something wrong in the room, such as a nasty stain on the floor, a lamp that doesn't work, a toilet flusher without a nob, a shower hose without a wall fixture, or a sink without a plug. So I have become quite adept at showering with one hand or using a sock to keep the water in the basin when I wash my clothes. But the bed is comfortable, the room is quiet, and I usually have a good night's sleep.

After a generous breakfast with coffee made by hand, I wended my way down to the Loire.

Women walked by with their dogs. A workman cut the nettles along the verge. A man was performing his tai chi, or praying to the Great Spirit of the Loire. I fell into a reverie myself, and imagined this path in the past, kings travelling from palace to palace, nobles riding by on horseback or, as Dickens would have it, in a coach, running over a hapless child and dispensing a few coins in recompense.

I have been rereading Dickens and finding it a little disappointing. Those insipid female characters like Dora and Florence, so silly and weak, even for Victorian times. Give me Dorothea or Emma or Elizabeth instead. Even the heroines of Mrs. Gaskell, an admirer of Dickens, had more backbone.

I walked under a massive viaduct which filed in from my right, but then stopped short. Another bridge to nowhere? The folly of a rich nobleman who had constructed an elevated walkway for his morning stroll?

My speculations were put to an end by the next person that I met. The lady explained that the viaduct had in fact carried a railway line across the Loire. It had been bombed during the war. Indeed, I looked back and saw the lonely pillars standing in the river.

She too had been to Canada, and had travelled on the Rocky Mountaineer, and visited Victoria and the Butchart Gardens. Very British, Victoria, she said, not the first person to make that comment. We agreed that it was truly a glorious morning, and I expressed my hope that perhaps it marked a change in the weather. She made that characteristic French gesture with her hand that expressed her doubt. She was right, as it turned out.

Until now, we have been well regarded by Europeans, but we should remember that they are well aware of our tar sands, which have probably replaced our unfortunate slaughter of the seals as an object of their disgust. While they try to control their emissions, we in North America pollute the air they breathe and mess up their climate.

A majestic troop of white swans swim out of a backwater towards a string of islands. Pink and white blossoms stand out against the green of the woods. A cuckoo sings incessantly.

Why is the call of the cuckoo such music to my ear? Why is the sight of the swans so pleasing to my eye? Why does this vista of sun and sky and woods and river fill me with such a feeling of well being? Surely we are meant to live in harmony with nature!

When I see the dogs playing and the lambs gambolling and the horses nestling together, all taking such pleasure in one another's company, I wonder, can all this be the result of chance?

Evolution does not explain to me the beauty of Nature or the joy of Living!

It was a wonderful walk on a glorious morning.

As I arrived in Blois, I noticed high on a hill a quite attractive modern church which made me think that not all contemporary ecclesiastical buildings have to be like those utilitarian glass temples which surround our cities in Canada.

The church turned out to be my destination, the Foyer de Notre Dame de la Trinite. At the Acceuil I was attended to by a young woman with such a disturbingly low neckline that I had to lift up my eyes unto the heavens. Quite a sight in a Catholic retreat! And hardly fair to the celibates. Or was this the modernization of the church?

I walked down the hill into the centre of town. On the way I ate the plat de jour on the terrace of Le Denis Papin. It was a pastille de canard, a superb dish, a kind of pie made of lentils and minced duck. I stopped at a magnificent building to admire some ornate carving. "It's a private home," said a man." We have such beauty everywhere in Blois." Indeed they do!

Then I visited le Chateau de Blois, that amazing quadrangular palace with its wings constructed in different architectural styles, the seasonal home of Francois I and Henri II. Afterwards, I sat and drank a beer at a bar overlooking the chateau. And then the wind almost whipped the umbrellas off their stands and it started to rain. I took my beer inside.

Day 9. Beaugency to Suevres. 23 kms (228)

Loveliest of trees the cherry now
is hung with blossom on the bough

Or it may have been the apple tree. Eastertide has been and gone, but the season is so late this year, that perhaps it was the cherry tree after all. Jean-Francois told me that he had to put a plastic covering over his potatoes to protect them from unseasonal frost. In any case, the blossoms, white and pink, assailed my senses as I left Beaugency in full sunlight with hardly a breath of wind to oppose me.

And it was well there was no wind. Across the river loomed a nuclear power station with its cooling tower sending a huge plume of steam straight up into the air. Yesterday's wind might have blown some of the effluent into my face.

It was an image of ugliness, but then I needed to charge my gadgets, didn't I.

Oblivious to the nuclear threat, a white swan swam on the waters below.

And on my side of the river, tiny little white flowers lined the verge along with intermittent buttercups and the occasional poppy. Above the chirping of the birds in the woods I could hear the cooing of the doves, and when I crossed the fields, I heard my first cuckoo. I passed a lowly donkey, and some horses nuzzling together under a tree. For much of the day I followed the horizontal red and white markings of the GR 3, until it took off across the river on a short cut to Blois.

I arrived at Suevres early in the afternoon, my estimation of the distance matching, for the first time, that of the guidebook. I visited the 12th century Eglise Saint-Christophe, sitting solidly on its Roman pillars. On the outside, I admired the gargoyles which had survived remarkably well despite stretching out into the elements.

I always find gargoyles interesting as they often reveal the earthiness of the workmen themselves. Some of the sculptors had a crude sense of humour, and on the outside of the church seem to have got away with profanity that wouldn't have been permitted on the inside. Perhaps they were unsupervised, or perhaps the authorities thought it wise to turn a blind eye. Often their taste turned towards the carving of male genitalia where they were certainly not necessary to the religious message. I have seen them in Spain, quite unattached, but in this particular case, they adorned one of the grotesque animals. In their youth, these workers would have been the village lads I mentioned in the last post.

I think they also got a kick out of carving some of the grotesque human figures in the likeness of someone they knew. They probably enjoyed depicting evil in the form of a person they particularly detested, such as a miserly merchant or a licentious priest. They must have had someone in mind when they carved the human figure with the moustache. What a pained expression on his face!

This year I am wearing woollies. At a Camino presentation in Victoria, Gail Robinson and a colleague from a local outdoor store praised the deodorant qualities of wool. They spoke of their experiences of wearing wool for a week without washing it. "It won't stink," she said. "You might, but it won't."

So far, so good. I'm not washing every day when I arrive, as I used to do. Mind you, it hasn't been hot. In fact, it's been bloody cool. I could do with my faux-Patagonia down sweater, which I thought I wouldn't need. But the word is that it gets warm once you cross the Loire. I'm still on the north side.

I am staying at the Hotel de la Providence at Suevres, demi-pension at €46. Very comfortable, with an excellent evening meal, full menu, generous portions, and wine included.

[My apologies to any of my email recipients who are receiving the daily post more than once. It may happen, but I didn't think it would, if I make a correction to a post and then publish it. But rest assured, if you do get the same post a second time, you don't have to read it.]

Day 8. Orleans to Beaugency. 34 kms (205)

Orléans, Beaugency,
Notre-Dame de Cléry,
Vendôme, Vendôme!

As I left Orleans for Beaugency, I walked at the pace of the river to the rhythm of the children's song.

All day long the Loire was on my left. Some of the willows on the bank were dead or dying under the stranglehold of the mistletoe. At times I walked past little backwaters away from the main flow, and expected to see Rat and Mole messing about in boats.

To the right were parks, campgrounds, backyards with barking dogs, the occasional chateau, fields of barley with the wind wafting across in waves, and even a lonely fisherman in a narrow lagoon.

It was a day of dogs. First, a succession of poodles followed by their masters and mistresses, gruffling and scuffling and snuffling along, enjoying one another's company.

And then from behind a fence, larger mastiffs, hurtling towards me, "Avaunt, thou scurvy knave. Begone!"

But dogs are usually friendly when they are out walking with their master. I met some happy labs who had been swimming in the Loire. One looked at me hesitantly, and when I clicked my tongue, bounded at me and smothered me in kisses. Or would have done, had his, or her, master not rescued me.

It is difficult these days, for obvious reasons, to tell whether a dog is male or female. Frequently, I say "he" and am corrected to "she". And vice versa.

I remember once in Brittany encountering a dog whose identity was not in doubt. He had not been neutered, and was walking about town with his mistress. They made a curious couple. She was quite beautiful, but he was by no means handsome. His testicles did not hang true, but were twisted and stuck out at an odd angle, without any covering of hair to protect his modesty. How the village lads must have laughed! I often wondered whether she was aware of the spectacle and indifferent to the ribald comments which must have followed, or was deliberately flaunting her dog's unfortunate appendage, secretly amused at the puerile sense of humour displayed by the male population. I felt sorry for the dog.

Dogs come in all shapes and sizes.

Next I met an older dog of indeterminate ancestry who had also been in the water. Her master and I fell a chatting, and when I asked for directions to the nearest bar, he invited me to join him for coffee at his house. He, like everybody else I meet, knew people in Canada. His daughter was a former teacher and a trained chef, and was now cooking for workers at a mining camp in the Yukon. How they must love their meals! He took me on a tour of his garden and introduced me to his pet chook. His name, not the chook's, was Jean-Francois Legare. A very common name in Quebec, he said, but rather rare in France. It was a very pleasant interlude.

I am staying tonight in Beaugency at another cheap hotel, the Auberge Maille D'Or. Even at $39, it's not the cheapest -- the kind lady in the tourist bureau hinted that I might not like that one -- but it's comfortable and has character. I am up in an attic in what would have once been the staff quarters, with wooden beams and sloping roof.

Day 7. Orleans

And on the seventh day thou shalt rest.

I ate a reasonably priced breakfast at the hotel, or rather the superior hotel across the courtyard, with coffee made by a person and not the machine which is becoming more common in cheap hotels.

I should explain that when I asked if my hotel had Wifi, I was told, no, but the hotel across the way did, and for 10 euros more I could stay there. Or I could have the code and stay here and use theirs. Which I did.

My hotel sits on la rue de Bourgogne, an ancient Roman road that stretched between Burgundy and Chateaudun. In medieval times it separated the ecclesiastical and bourgeois areas from the artisan quarter. And in a way it still does. To the north lie the cathedral and the banks; to the south, the university and the little bars and restaurants.

I was enjoying my croissant when a lady arrived with the pungent pong of French perfume. My head began to ache and I had to leave. She wouldn't have been welcome at the Victoria Choral Society.

I walked down to the Loire between a church and a stone wall with a magnificent wisteria vine. I was almost swept away by a scramble of students, not creeping like snail, but hurrying quite willingly to their Catholic lycée. What it must do to their spirit to live and work in such beauty!

Wordsworth wrote of the part played by nature in the formation of his character. The same is surely true of the architectural environment.

Fair seed time had my soul, and I grew up
Fostered alike by beauty and by fear

Happily, for these students in this institution, there was no longer any fear.

This was not a cultural visit. I gave the museum a miss, and after the cathedral, spent most of the day strolling around the vieux quartier and enjoying the ambience.

On a rooftop, pigeons were huddling together for warmth. A little child toddled towards me on the cobbled street. A street musician plucked at his guitar. Between the multi-coloured, half-timbered houses, I caught a glimpse of the cathedral spires.

The cathedral is magnificent, of course, gothic, with a long nave, and a choir almost as long, presided over by a painting of Jeanne d'Arc. I was almost alone on both my visits.

The burning of Joan of Arc at the stake by the English was not their finest hour. It is recorded and remembered everywhere: what happened and who did it!

I wore my hearing aids today for the first time. I hadn't needed them when I was walking and talking to myself, and they wouldn't have worked in the wind anyway. Suddenly, the world was much louder. The booming of the church bells shook me to my very core, and the clanging of the bell of a tram coming up behind me made me stumble into a flower bed.

For the next few days, I will be walking along the bank of the Loire.

I will let the pictures speak for themselves.

Veni, vidi, edi, bibi.

Day 6. Artenay to Orleans. 30 kms (171)

Hail, Poetry, thou heaven-born maid!

I pushed my way against the wind, as occasional showers of rain pattered against my Patagonia jacket. I was spending much of the day going back and forth under the Great Viaduct or over the motorway, or both. Trains whizzed by on the Paris-Orleans main line.

On the way to Chevilly, I witnessed what I thought was the cruellest thing I had ever seen. A movement in the middle of field to the left caught my eye. A large bird, some kind of hawk, was tethered to a pole, and was swooping and soaring as it tried to escape. This brutal treatment of an animal made the force feeding of birds to fatten their liver for pâté seem like the milk of human kindness. I watched it for a while, and then noticed the legs. It's not a bird, it's a bat, I thought. And then I twigged. It was not a living creature at all. It was a kite, and the most effective scarecrow I have ever seen. It had me fooled, and surely I am brighter than a crow? And yet, even the dumbest crow must have wondered after a while why the big fierce bird didn't do anything, but just kept on making threatening gestures.

I sometimes feel a bit of a fraud as I walk on a "pilgrimage", especially when I find myself at an Accueil Pelerin and I'm assumed to be "pratiquant". The other morning, for example, just as I was going out to have breakfast, some young priests arrived and invited me to pray with them and then join them afterwards for their meal. I had to refuse, of course, and my refusal was graciously accepted. It was a kind and Christian offer that would have been gladly accepted by a religious pilgrim.

I told myself that there are many kinds of pilgrims, and that Christian hospitality extends to all kinds. I have always found that to be the case.

In the spirit of the Camino, I thought I would offer you the occasional religious reflection or even my attempt at a Profound Thought.

Am I a Christian? I certainly don't believe in the divinity of Christ or anything that follows, such as the virgin birth or the resurrection. To my mind, these are all later political attributions to a simple and exceptional man. And I certainly don't believe in a benevolent God. That much is obvious. The apologists have tied themselves into knots of logical absurdity trying to explain away the problem of suffering in the world, the injustice of it all! God is punishing the sinners? God works in mysterious ways? What a lot of nonsense!

And yet, I don't like the way the pendulum has swung in the opposite direction. It has become fashionable to knock Christianity.

The great atheist, Richard Dawkins (some would say the great Satan), has called himself a cultural Anglican. That's where I fall as well. In fact, like it or not, that's where most of us lie. Especially if we love art and music and poetry, and feel a part of the great tradition. So I am a cultural Christian.

I love churches, unless they are glass temples. We take them for granted, even if we don't go inside them. Imagine what it would do to the character and beauty of our towns if the churches were pulled down. What would we see in their place? Golden arches? Or worse?

I love the language of Christianity, and I hate to see it dumbed down. I love the King James Bible and the Book of Common Prayer. And I love the Latin mass.

I love the hymns, and had occasion to sing some of them recently when I attended the funeral of a former colleague. John had planned his own service, and against the wishes of his church, had insisted on the congregation's singing the words of the hymns before they were neutered.

I sang with gusto "Praise my soul the King of heaven", or was it "Praise to the Lord the Almighty the King of Creation". I forget which, but both are rich in masculine nouns and pronouns.

And I said the Lord's Prayer, not because I believe it, but because I wanted to do my bit to save it from being rendered into something like:

Our Creator, asexual, bisexual, transsexual, neutered, anything but masculine, Being,
Who art within us and about us, but certainly not up there.
We accord thee a certain amount of respect,
And we may or may not believe in thy divinity.
Give us this day an equitable portion of whole-grained bread, free from chemicals and genetically modified wheat,
But do not expect us to ask for our trespasses to be forgiven, for sin is the artificial construct of a colonial and patriarchal society.
Nor do we ask to be delivered from evil, for there are no absolutes.
May social justice prevail upon this planet,
And may it always be green, even as we enjoy the fruits of its destruction.
Amen.

I have used as few capital letters as possible, because I have heard that they are offensive to some people, but I don't know why and I don't know whom.

It was a fine service, and, as we would have expected, full of great music from Mendelssohn to Gilbert and Sullivan.

John was a fine man, and left a large legacy. I, for one, owe him a lot, for he invited me to join the Manitoba Opera Chorus for the singing of Aida. I was flattered, for I didn't read music. It was only later that I realized that if you sang tenor the conductor didn't ask awkward questions.

I was thinking of you today, John, as I walked across the plains.

At Gidy I received a nasty shock. I had lingered a little this morning, thinking it was only 17 kms to Orleans. I had already walked 15, so I stopped for a coffee and a crust of bread. How far to Orleans?" I asked. " Sixteen, replied the seasoned veteran at the bar. Sixteen?? I looked at my guidebook and saw that the distance to be covered was not 17, but 27, kilometres. I had been misled by the author's assurance that today was an easy day. I looked at his photo on the back cover, and saw the physique of a marathon runner and the physiognomy of a sergeant-major. I trudged on.

Finally, I reached the outskirts of the city of Joan of Arc, the maid of Orleans. I walked into the old town, and found the Hotel du Sauvage, which the girl at the tourist bureau had described as "sympa". And it was, if only because of the largest beam I have ever seen, spanning the top of my room and supporting the rafters above. Tomorrow, I am going to spend the day in Orleans. I hope to regale you with some pictures.

Day 5. Angerville to Artenay. 38.5 kms (141)

Hark, hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings

There were tiny little ants running around on the floor of the church hall where I had spent the night. Perhaps they were Argentine ants. They didn't smell.

When I was a child, Perth experienced an invasion of Argentine ants. My father taught me always to squash an ant to see if it smelled. If if did, it was all right, it wasn't an Argentine ant. I'm not sure why they were such a threat. Perhaps they would eat us out of house and home. An even greater threat was the white ant, the termite. It would eat your house and home. When I was young, back in Oz, if someone stole your girlfriend, you were said to have been white-anted. An effective metaphor, if you think about it.

When I left town this morning into a cold breeze, the temperature was eight degrees. Winnipeggers, always eager to make it colder than it really is, would have said it was minus ten with the windchill factor. Or, "It's minus ten, (pause, and then), with the windchill factor." Or, "It's minus ten." Stop.

As I walked out, the sun was lighting the furrows of a newly ploughed field.

I arrived at the little hamlet of Ouestreville. I chuckled at the notice next to the gate of someone who obviously didn't like dogs. (Scroll below to the second photo.) I thought about what I would like to do in the dead of night. But I had to move on.

I mean, how absurd! A dog's gotta go when a dog's gotta go, and a dog's gotta go where a dog's gotta go.

I passed between a battalion of wind turbines and a line of high tension towers. Triffids and tripods about to do battle. The larks began to sing again. They must have sounded bittersweet to the soldiers on the great battlefields to the north. When they could hear them!

A tiny bird, their song fills the air. Too small to glide, they flutter frantically to keep their place against the wind. How can they sing so beautifully when they have to devote so much energy to staying aloft? No wonder they are celebrated in music and poetry, perhaps the most famous instance being Romeo and Juliet's arguing over which bird of song the have heard:

JULIET
Wilt thou be gone? It is not yet near day.
It was the nightingale, and not the lark,
That pierced the fearful hollow of thine ear.
Nightly she sings on yon pomegranate tree.
Believe me, love, it was the nightingale.

ROMEO
It was the lark, the herald of the morn,
No nightingale. Look, love, what envious streaks
Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east.
Night’s candles are burnt out, and jocund day
Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops.
I must be gone and live, or stay and die.

The nightingale is the other bird I long to hear, but it may be too late in the season. I did hear one once on the Chemin du Puy.

The villagers of Oinville-Saint-Liphard seemed to have surrendered to the triffids, for the turbines were planted in their midst. It was probably a way of paying the bills. Most little villages I pass through can afford to open their mairie for only a few hours each week. And of course, the commerce has all gone.

When I arrived in Toury around lunchtime, anxious for my first coffee of the day, I found a market in full swing in the centre of town, and I couldn't even squeeze inside a nearby bar. I found another down the street on the corner of the road that leads to the railway station. I mention the location only because I was received most hospitably, and was able to take advantage of their Wifi.

After trekking another five or six kilometres and reaching the village of Tivernon, I was ready to sit down on a bench in front of the church. But as my old friend Rod Halcombe's father used to say on the ABC's Sporting Roundup when Claremont had been expected to win the footy, "Such was not to be the case." There was a bench, but no boards! Were they trying to discourage a sedentary life style? I walked a little further and came to another bench. This time there was one plank, out of three, and no back. The others must have been taken by someone as thick as two planks. Why the boards had been removed from the benches in this village must remain to me one of life's little mysteries.

As I neared Artenay, I came upon a twentieth century folly, the aero train line. In Victoria BC, we make fun of the bridge to nowhere, an overpass abandoned when the developer ran out of money. In front of me was an 18-kilometre viaduct to nowhere, a track on concrete pillars built in 1969 to test a magnetic levitation train, and eventually to carry a fast service between Paris and Orleans. It was abandoned when funds ran out and the TGV became the accepted model. But the track remains, and will probably remain for a thousand years, since nobody has the money to pull it down. Something for future historians and archaeologists to talk about!

The hotels in Artenay were closed, but I found a thriving motel up on the highway. It was cheap and comfortable.

Now I didn't get lost today. Well, perhaps I missed the odd turn and put on an extra few metres here and there, half a kilometre in all at most. But I walked 38.5 kms, instead of an expected 30.5. Were the authors of the guide measuring as the crow flies and not as the pilgrim walks? But tomorrow, it's a short walk into Orleans. I hope.