Sunday, November 30, 2008

Moissac, France, Sunday November 16th

Keith and Christine would love to hear from you with questions, comments, personal news and any news at all from Australia or wherever you are. We will reply to all emails! Please write to either windlechristine@gmail.com or windle.keith@gmail.com

We slept in until our bodies woke us. Although normally the rooms have to be vacated by nine o’clock for the cleaner to come, she would not be coming today, being Sunday. It was a freezing day so I settled down in my sleeping bag to type and Keith studied the photos that he had taken of pages in a guide book. If we walked on we would not have a guide book and we would be relying on the red and white markers and these photos.
Suddenly remembering that the shops shut at lunch time, we quickly readied ourselves to buy some food for dinner. Katya was very low on funds, so we purchased her list of items from the supermarket for her, with the intent to sort the finances out at the next gite, after she had been to the bank. While we were waiting at the checkout at the supermarket, a lady indicated through the window that there was money on the floor and that I should pick it up. I knew it wasn’t ours, and the man beside us said it wasn’t his. It was no-one’s, so I said that we would give it to the church for the poor. There was great agreement to this suggestion from the queue members.
We were a long time returning with the shopping because the Sunday morning market was on. There were many clothing and jewellery stands as well as food for sale – sausages, cheeses, bread, cakes, fruit, vegetables, meat, nuts and legumes, plants – lots of bustle and colour. Watching the people was also interesting, with a mix of colours and languages, and lots of families out with their children.Above: The garlic stall had many varieties
Below: The preserved meats appeared to be covered with a grey mould.
The pilgrim with the dog told me that he had been shopping, indicating a bag of goodies for him and some dog supplies. He was cheerful and was chatting to other people. In the square nearby a family of portly bronze people was sitting on the benches, in comfortable poses, with one perpetually working away at her knitting.After lunch we walked up the hill behind our gite, to where a large statue of Mary gazed out over the town. Excellent information boards with pictures and photos from the past, told us about the sights below. The Abby of St Peter was founded in the 7th Century, and was added to over time. The old part of the town has many medieval buildings and the character of an ancient town, although many mansions date from the 18th century when trading was at its height. The French Revolution in 1879 ended the role of the church in the life of the city, and at that time the municipality of Moissac was created. It is lucky that the wanton destruction of church property, or alteration to meet new civilian demands, did not happen here. One change that did go ahead in more recent times was the siting of the railway lines just behind the cloisters. The judges who held court in the buildings off the cloisters at the time, up and left, saying that they would not be able to stand all the noisy interruptions that trains would bring. Disastrous floods led to much new building in the 1930s. The meandering river Tarn, with the elegant Napoleon bridge arching its way across, and the regimented straight canal, could be seen across town.We were joined by a man out for a stroll, who grew up here and remembered the convent when it was running as one. The convent was built by some rich ladies who were called ‘the ladies of mystery’, and eighteen Carmelite nuns started there in 1858. Their numbers dropped to the point in 1950 that it was not viable to continue. The building was used as housing for the poor until 1975 when it was again a religious house, occupied by a community of the Opus Maria. They left in 1997 and in 1999 the Commune took it over to create a gite and an international conference centre. Keith had forgotten something, so we walked back down the hill together to our convent gite and the man stayed to chat to me when Keith went inside. I love these chance encounters that enable me to listen and to speak French with no English back up and to hear people’s stories.It was time to visit the cloisters so we bought our tickets in the Tourist Office, where the pilgrim and his dog were browsing through the guides. It was toasty warm in there. We left to go to the St Pierre Church next door, where there is an elaborate carved portrayal of the Apocalypse, as described by St John. Christ is enthroned, with twenty-four crowned ancient men holding harps, and around him are four beasts – one like a lion, one like a bull, one with the face of a man and one like an eagle flying. There are other strange beasts and figures surrounding the portal, and some of the figures look like skeletons.The church was part of the St Pierre great abbey which was said to have been founded by Clovis, the first Frankish Christian king. The abbey was one of the great Christian religious communities under the Benedictines in the Middle Ages. Both the church entrance and the sculpted columns in the cloisters are on the UNESCO World Heritage list.
While we were reading the information before entering the church, the pilgrim we kept seeing came over and asked me if I could give him one Euro because he needed to give one Euro to the Tourist Office. It seemed an odd request and Keith asked him if he was a beggar, in English. That question was ignored, since he was telling me in French and a couple of words of English that he came from the earth, and that he had moved beyond being a citizen of Brittany and was now a ‘citizen of the earth.’ He didn’t agree with the systems in France. He was now a pilgrim and slept out every night, even when it rained. I wasn’t sure what he wanted the money for the Tourist Office for, but maybe it was to purchase something or maybe they were charging him for heating if he was in there all day, or maybe it was for something else and he was a beggar. I searched my pocket for the five Euro note from the supermarket floor and told him that I was going to give it to the church, but that he could have it. He seemed overwhelmed and said that he could not take it, and then said that he would use one Euro of it and give the rest to the church for me. I was thinking of St Martin, and how he gave his cloak to a poor man who turned out to have been Jesus, with the message being that when you help the poor, it as if you have given to Jesus. I was under no illusions about this situation, and know that the money may or may not have been put to good use, also that it wasn’t a sacrifice for me since it wasn’t my money. Nevertheless, I would have given my money, as an act of humanity. The problem of beggars is a constant one for us, since they congregate around churches and tourist offices, where people with spare money may be, and also in the streets of the towns. It is difficult to give to all, and difficult to give to none, and impossible to tell who is a professional beggar and doing very well on it and who is a person in dire need.
The church has religious scenes in painted wood, carved in the fifteenth century, with almost naïve round faced characters and very fluid lines. The organist arrived and filled the building with a stream of beautiful sound, after some very strange fog horn type warming up moments.
We then started the longest, coldest tour of the cloisters in history. Our guide was incredibly enthusiastic, leaping about and highlighting details with a laser pointer. She spoke French, and although I could follow to some extent, the speed and content made it very difficult. Keith didn’t even try to understand the commentary and concentrated on taking photos that we hoped I would be able to make sense of later. The guide took a shine to me and pin pointed me with her gaze, repeating a key sentence to be sure that I had understood. I tried to look as if I did understand, even when I didn’t, in the interests of the tour finishing before we all had turned to ice statues. The cloister was completed around 1100, and is special, apart from the magnificent Romanesque carvings, because it is intact. There are seventy-six capitals and side pillars, all with carving, and forty-six of them depict scenes from the bible and the lives of the saints. On some capitals, the story is told in different scenes around each side. They are so detailed, with individual faces, clothing, hairstyles and equipment all there as the sculptors imagined and carved them.Above: Limestone is great for sculptors but bad for posterity. If the capitals hadn't been under shelter all these years thei surfaces would look like this by now.They also have inscriptions so that there can be no confusion over what they depict, and would have been a way to teach bible stories to the illiterate and also provided topics for meditation in this usually peaceful place. The organ music competed with our guide and a tour of students, taking about five minutes only, was noisy and lively.
The abbey became affiliated to the abbey in Cluny in 1048, and the abbey church was consecrated in 1063, in time to cash in on the great increase of English and Irish pilgrims on their way to Saint Jacques de Compostelle in Spain. There was often a rich offering made at churches along the way, particularly to abbeys which had provided accommodation and care. The cloister carvings added to the prestige of the abbey as a key religious stop over and, a generation later, the new porch carving set Moissac as a ‘must see’ point for any pilgrim.
We were grateful for the warming exercise as we climbed the stairs at one corner of the cloisters. They led up into the top of the church where you could look down over the body of the building, and held a large wooden arch frame. To warm us up even more, we did a little tour of the town, over to the Napoleon Bridge and back along the road to the convent.
There was a roaring fire in the gite kitchen, where two friendly Swiss pilgrims were cooking their dinner. A Belgian man who worked at the hostel told us about his four completed pilgrimages from different points, with his favourite being the one from Montpelier that passes through Lourdes. He was studying a guide book for his walking trip to Jerusalem next year. Another man was having a drink. Everyone spoke French so that was the language of most conversation, but the Swiss ladies spoke English with us and something else between themselves. The discussion turned to wild dogs, and the two men said that they it was not wild dogs, but domesticated dogs with a sense that their territory was being invaded, that were the problem in Spain. They said that dogs are more aggressive if they sense fear, so don’t be afraid and things will go better. The Swiss ladies did not find that very reassuring and doubted if they could fake fearlessness. They walked thirty kilometres a day for three weeks each year and had started from Geneva. They were used to high mountains and walked every weekend of the year so were very fit. Katya came down to join us all, and it was an enjoyable little taste of what being a pilgrim in warmer, more social times might be like.
We all planned to leave the next morning – the Swiss ladies at 7.30, us at 8.30 and Katya sometime after ten. This sculpture is in the street is called 'A la gloire de Moissac' (to the Glory of Moissac) and it celebrates the pure water and golden grapes that the town is famous for. It appears to depict the god Bacchus encouraging the woman to indulge in yet more consumption of grapes Neither Bacchus nor the woman appear particularly happy! Are those flames leaping up around the woman?

Lauzerte to Moissac, France Saturday November 15th

Keith and Christine would love to hear from you with questions, comments, personal news and any news at all from Australia or wherever you are. We will reply to all emails! Please write to either windlechristine@gmail.com or windle.keith@gmail.com
We were up very early, having had a day of rest and understanding our walking needs of no rushing at the end of the day. Katya planned to leave much later, to take her time and have a big breakfast and to sleep in a little. When we left, Michel and Bernadette were talking with her over cups of coffee.
Having walked the medieval city on the top of the hill the day before, I knew that we did not have to go up just for the sake of following the official trail, simply to come down and walk on. We called at the bakery and skirted around the lower village and out onto the open road. Much as I have loved taking the time to explore places with a day off, I always love the first two hours of the freedom of being off and away on the chemin again. It doesn’t matter how cold it is to me, or whether it is drizzling or misty, I have just enjoyed that feeling of prancing along in tune with my body before lots of other activities have taken the edge off my energy levels. We have both enjoyed having new ground to cover and a goal to reach every day, yet no stress because the path is so well marked.
This trail marker was decorated with a peculiar steel 'sculpture' and some accompanying words about the solar system. It is common to find posts like this adorned with crosses, at which pilgrims habitually leave stones.
It wasn’t long before we were far enough away to turn and have a last view of Lauzerte, and to consider how much we would enjoy living around here. The path, which had been following the road between farmland and beside a field of Cosmos in a flower farm, took a dip into a forest. At once we lost the sense of where we were, being only aware of the the one little bit of lane that we could see, and of the trees all around us. When we emerged, we were surprised to see my dream home with a ‘For Sale’ sign on it. High grand stone gateposts supported no gates so we had a clear view of the enormous grounds, the large old stone farmhouse, big enough for all our family and friends, and not a ruin (which for some reason puts Keith off). There was also a large stable. Being set at the edge of the woods, only three kilometres away from Lauzerte, and near a restored ancient chapel as well, it had everything going for it.Unfortunately no price was given and we did not take down the telephone number to make an inquiry. We walked on to the top of the rise, noting easy road access to Luazerte, and then noting that we hadn’t seen any red and white signs for a while. I read the guide book, where it said very clearly to turn right at the pigeonnier, which was opposite the house we had been studying. We had a little back tracking to do, and then we were on the right path again. We have seen many and varied pigeonniers, which are structures built to raise pigeons. They are sometimes on stilts, sometimes round, and often very decorative, on occasion being more carefully constructed than the nearby house of the people. The pigeons lay their eggs inside the pigeonnier. We presume that the pigeons are raised for the table, rather than for the love of birds or to carry messages or compete in races, but as yet no-on has confirmed our thoughts on this. When we asked a man about eating the pigeons, he was on a different wave length and said that the father bird continues to fly in and out finding food which he regurgitates for the young and the female.
It was at this point that we came to the Church of St Sernin, in a clearing in the woods. A group of citizens has worked on it, applying for grants and giving their labour to restore this beautiful little church.Scaffolding inside showed that the task is continuing.A wall attached to the church surrounds its cemetery. There are recent graves as well as old ones, and the brightest flowers, blooming as pot plants, showed that the cemetery is very much a part of the present. I found the grave of someone who had died on my birthday, twenty years before I was born. I wondered about this person, who had been named simply as M. Resseguie, aged 77. Did the M stand for Monsieur? Was it for a name? All pointless ponderings that were given a chance as we walked along, except that they brought to mind the bigger thought of how many every-day practices are based on traditions and customs that a visitor doesn’t know.
We had a fair bit of walking beside the road, but not much traffic. Eventually we passed through Durfort Lacapalette, where we chose to ignore the red and white markers, as recommended by Michel, continuing on the road and dropping two kilometres off the day. A turn to the left from the main road led over the hills and past much new building, and also a sign that said it was forbidden to pick the mushrooms. We saw another later on, nowhere near a built up area, and wondered whether the area had been sprayed or was there a mushroom owner somewhere who was sick of sharing the harvest. Once we were out of the area of houses, we left the road and scrambled down a slope into the forest to have lunch. A picnic tastes so good after a long walk and with your bottom perched on a plastic bag in a damp but beautiful forest.It was here that perhaps Keith lost his glasses – after studying the guide book, and where some woodland creature now puzzles over the smooth round glass discs.
Today’s walk took us though farms, along the tracks between the paddocks and close to the farm buildings.Many times we have felt as though we must be going the wrong way, as we walked through farms, and in amongst hay and machinery sheds, but it has been the official path.
The crops gave way to orchards, with the hillsides patched with different varieties of trees and their distinctive autumn foliage. At one stage the bright yellow of apricots competed with the vivid orange carpet under a peach orchard. The area around Moissac is renowned for its orchards but this industry only started in a big way around the 1930s. Until then, the hillsides were clothed in vineyards. Today we saw apples, kiwi fruit, peaches, apricots, grapes and pears. Some trees were espaliered and others were pruned to vase or other shapes.A few orchards had nets tied up, ready to lower to stop birds damaging the fruit next year. We were back in the land of the enormous clods and shining hillsides, and stepped carefully from grass patch to grass patch whenever we could to avoid clay on our shoes.We passed a spring that had been fed into a well and animal trough beside the lane, and a tree beside it had grown in such a way as to look like a dragon guarding a miraculous source of water.For ages we walked beside the road along an avenue of enormous plane trees which showed them in all their glory, and then we were off along another lane. At a fork, the markers led in one direction, and in the other a fenced paddock had a notice that told pilgrims to stay out. There must have been some bad experiences for someone to have gone to the trouble to have an enormous professional sign made. I thought back to the reasons that some pilgrims, and rifraf claiming to be pilgrims, had been unpopular in the past, and imagined modern versions.
We were putting on speed on the flat areas and zoomed towards the suburban outskirts of Moissac. On our last rural stretch, the hillsides were covered so neatly in orchards that they looked like knitted rib pattern. Soon we were walking past industrial sites, and then, as the city proper started, along a quiet back street parallel with the main road. In the distance the skyline told of the Medieval city heart that we were steadily gaining on. Suddenly the streets were narrow, the buildings interesting and the signs mentioning the cloisters, which are famous here. It is always tempting to start looking around before we find our lodgings and drop off the packs, but we were very sensible and walked on by temptations and straight to the tourist office. There we received a map, guidance to the Communal Gite in an ex-Carmelite Convent that we had booked in to, and some information about the city. A young man sat with his dog beside the Tourist Office, his back pack and sleeping swag beside him. He greeted us and asked if we were going to Saint Jacques de Compostelle. When we said that we were on our way, but would not complete the trip this year, he said that he was walking there too. He kept his head warm with a Peruvian cap, and wore gloves and a coat, but it was bitterly cold to be sitting outside. Keith was cold even though we had been walking and he wore a beanie and a jumper. I was cold but couldn’t waste my clothes by putting them on over my t-shirt which was wet on the back from walking with a back pack.
It was not far to the convent, but the last twenty metres were very steep and suddenly we were tired. If we hadn’t stopped in the tourist office we would have been fine, but once we stop at the end of the day, that seems to be it for carrying the packs. We followed the signs for pilgrims up the stairs to the cloisters area, and couldn’t find anyone to book in with. It was a busy time since the Alpine Association of France was holding a weekend meeting there and the staff members were organising things for them. We waited in the cold, and eventually two ladies came and we were allocated a room. When I went down to pay, I was waiting for a long time again, in an area open to the weather. A man, who had been looking sympathetically at me when he came downstairs and went into the warm kitchen/dining room, came out again and invited me to come in. Unfortunately I couldn’t really do that since I was waiting for both Keith and one of the staff to appear, but it was very kind of him to be concerned and then to do something about it.
Eventually we were on our way back into the city to walk along Rue de la Republique to the supermarket. We needed food for dinner, but just bought items for a picnic so that we could settle into our room and rest our legs as soon as possible. On our way back, as the street lights glowed in the dark, we saw that the other pilgrim was settling down in a corner. He told us that he would sleep there tonight, and I thought that he said that he would walk on the next day. It would be difficult to find accommodation as a pilgrim with a dog, although the gite we were at had some rooms on the ground floor specially allocated to pilgrims and their canine companions. Long gone are the days when free lodging and food could be expected by pilgrims. There are some religious communities that provide free lodging, but not at every stop along the way. Staying in gites was a cheaper accommodation option, but for pilgrims walking for long periods of time, the costs would certainly mount up. The poor pilgrim needs to walk in warmer months and take a tent. It was an option that I liked the thought of, sleeping in the woods and stopping at body need point rather than gite availability point. Maybe that is what we will do next time.
It was nearly eight o’clock when we heard Katya’s voice in the passage, as the ladies were showing her a room. She had started late, walked forever and had just arrived, well after dark. She was pretty cold and miserable, and had been too late to go to a bank to change a travellers cheque. She had some food but was exhausted.
I had read the tourist information and we would have to stay another night in Moissac, since the Cloisters were only open after 2 p.m. There were a couple of walking paths to follow around the town so that would fill up the day.
Moissac was really the final destination of our current walk, so we should have been stopping. Somehow it didn’t feel as if it was the end. There was no sense of fanfare or achievement in this arrival. We will have to see how the weather lasts, and where else we could realistically walk to, and how we feel after the Cloisters.
Keith rang the gite in Lauzerte where he was sure he must have left his glasses beside the computer, but Michel could not find them anywhere.

Tuesday, November 25, 2008

Lauzerte, France, Friday November 14th

Keith and Christine would love to hear from you with questions, comments, personal news and any news at all from Australia or wherever you are. We will reply to all emails! Please write to either windlechristine@gmail.com or windle.keith@gmail.com

What a lazy day we have had. The heavy fog let us off going out into the cold to explore until way after lunch. Keith published seventeen blog pages, which will mean that devoted regular readers will have to take time off work. I read, thought and typed. Our wet washing dried in front of the fire and every now and then we stirred ourselves to make cups of tea.
At about three o’clock we headed up the spiralling road to the Medieval stone city of Lauzerte. There was an ancient Gallic settlement here. The name, Lauzerte, derives from Latin and means ‘lamp’ and certainly it had looked like a beacon shining on the hill to us. The Count of Toulouse had built a casteneau (a fortified city with a castle) here towards the end of the twelfth century. Gradually a city square was built and more houses were added to those already there. By then it was impossible to re-design the streets, so instead they settled for two major streets, each running into the square, and made do with a variety of lanes between them. Settlers were lured by offers of land, with the economic basis of the city thus being ensured. It was a great strategic success on the part of the Count of Toulouse and the effort that he put into creating a fine town, with arcades reminiscent of those in Toulouse itself, must have been well appreciated.The square certainly speaks of glory days in its size and with the beautiful brick arcades. Many of the houses were built from the 14th Century, when trading and being an important stop on the Chemin St Jacques de Compostelle had led to wealth and growth in the city. A sculpture was a corner of the square’s paving turned up, which was intriguing and caused us to wonder what the sculptor had in mind. I later read that it is to promote meditation and reflection, but for me, who is not at all neat, I wanted to press it down or discover more than the simple ceramic pattern if I looked underneath. Keith really liked the idea of it and how perfectly the flipping up had been achieved, so we were both fully engaged with it and discussing it for ages. A tour of the town took us to where the school children were all out bouncing balls while their teachers supervised. Their building ran along the old wall line, and now there was a walkway below that was built over the old moat in the 19th Century. Imagine the fortifications here – a castle, towers, walls, gates, and a moat, all high on top of a hill with a commanding view of the countryside in all directions. The large church of St Bartholomew sat at right angles to the square. Its windows were from the 19th Century. One corner was devoted to panels painted by the artist Jean-Marie-Joseph Ingres and his pupils on a trip to this area, which had once graced a mansion in the area and were donated to the church. Ingres was born in 1754 in Toulouse and was much admired for his paintings of buildings and landscapes in tones of blue.The pilgrim’s Garden was set out like a board game but, without the dice and rules available at the tourist office, and without a perfect command of French, we were a little lost. It was certainly a great idea, with each spot having an ancient verse relating to pilgrims, some key words in French, English and Spanish, and some instructions, such as to miss a turn because you were attacked by wolves or to move forward because you were now out of the mountains.
Many of the houses had double arches on the ground floor. The larger one would have been a commercial entrance and the smaller one, the residential entrance. A row of tiny windows indicated that the next storey was used for storage. The top floor was the residence, with decorative windows and, on some buildings, a little balcony. Clearly these people were doing well. Several times we noticed posters with people seeming to be electrocuted, talking about antennae and asking what would become of the children. Michel later explained that there are now three antennae for mobile phones, very close to the schools in the city, and although there had been protests, they had gone ahead anyway. One was even on the church.This is still a living city, while also retaining its medieval character and promoting it. So many times we have commented on how quiet the villages are, with no music blaring forth from houses or sounds of children playing. It was different here, with the voices of children singing rhymes and calling to each other adding to the timeless quality. I looked through the grille into a chamber in the old city wall, and then entered an open door above it. It seemed to be a public space but the door to the stairs leading down was locked.
We walked back down the hill to meet Michel, noting the path that we, as pilgrims, should have taken; steeper and rougher than the road that led from the gite. We called at the upper village shops to check closing times, since we would need a few more supplies and then wandered back.
Another pilgrim had arrived, as evidenced by her walking boots by the door. Katya, young German woman, was very tired from the day’ walking. She was keen to have a shower and wash some clothes, so did not want to take up the invitation to join Michel and us in the Medieval City. We headed off on foot, past Michel’s well, which never runs dry. All the houses here have wells that permanently have two metres of water in them. An Australian couple are neighbours who live half the year here and the other half in Sydney, where they are now. Several of their relatives have purchased houses in this area. It seems like a very good idea to me and now Keith is not dismissing the proposal out of hand any more.
Michel loves this town. He spent holidays here with family all his life and is so happy to be living here now. There is no public transport, which is a drawback, however Moissac is only about twenty-two kilometres away and there is a station there. There are doctors, a hospital and all other needs, so it would be possible to live here without a car.
Michel led us to the same little room in the wall where I had been just an hour ago. He had a key to the locked door so in we went. When the city was built, the stone for all the construction above was dug out of the hill, creating deep cellars with wells in them beneath every building. Down here the temperature is twelve to thirteen degrees Celcius all year round. This particular cave, nine metres deep, is below a school. Nothing is kept here but the space is well used for storage under other places. The lowest storey had moisture running down the stone walls but no water on the floor. A small bat, ahead of its fellows in seeking a place for winter hibernation, clung to the wall. Above us another floor was more neatly cut, with vaulted ceilings with little carvings where they joined. They were of the Easter lamb, oak leaves (chêne), a chestnut (marronnier), and a castle with three turrets. The information board said that this level may once have been used for court hearings. A well was cut into a recess in the upper storey. So there was city under the city. I didn’t think of it at the time, but later I wondered if the underground rooms were connected somehow, which would have been very handy for times of attack or to visit someone when it was raining or to have clandestine meetings.
We called in to see an art exhibition, and to sip some red Cahors wine. Unfortunately only one other person was visiting the show, which was very disappointing for the artists. They told me that it is very difficult for most artists in France, and that there are only a few artists with celebrity status who do well. I was so surprised, imagining that a country with so much public art would have a culture of nurturing and promoting its artists, and also a culture of the public buying art works. Apparently the ‘public’ who buy French art are more likely to be English.
The last thing Michel showed us was a quaint little word joke sculpture. Our French vocabulary was not good enough for us to have got it, but there were three things depicted – a monk, a hook for hanging meat over a fire and a kind of rabbit or hare. They are all called Capuchin.We had enjoyed walking and talking with Michel, and particularly our visit to the subterranean world. Katya was nowhere to be seen when we returned home, and Michel pointed out that her boots were gone. We went to the nearby shops at the upper village, where a kind shop keeper had given me some extra peppers, and we had spent a while making our choices. When we returned, Katya was back. She, poor thing, had walked all the way down the hill to the supermarket at the start of the town She was feeling a bit low and had had a bad day generally. Michel talked to her about drinking lots of water, about eating snacks, not walking too fast, about resting when your body says that you should. He has done a lot of the walk and will walk on with his niece next year, so he knows how some days can be a bit much and others can be magnificent. He also told us how the path to Moissac had been changed this year, adding two kilometres, and how we could use the old path tomorrow if we were daunted by the distance.
Katya and I had a chat, while we thought about dinner, about walking to have time to think things through and about her plan to go over the Pyrenees and all the way to Santiago De Compostela in Spain, through the winter months. Tonight, though, it was one day at a time, with her needing to build herself up to face the walk to Moissac the next day. Our purchases and preferences meant that she and Keith cooked separately, but at the same time. We ate together, all of us using our second language of French to communicate.
Next year there will be a big thirty bed gite for pilgrims here, and the gite we were in will become a gite for people wishing to stay for a holiday. Michel and Bernadette said that we must come back for a visit one day, and they are such a lovely couple, that if we are in France again, we will. Besides, Lauzerte had certainly cast a spell on us.