Cahors to Lascabanes, France, Wednesday November 12th

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We were feeling like new people after two days rest, and with only 23 kilometres to go and an early start made, we were laughing. On top of that, the lady running the gite at Lascabanes had said that she couldn’t have it cleaned before 4 pm so could we come later than that, and we had readily agreed, wanting a no pressure day.

As we crossed the Valentre Bridge, we took note of the little carved devil on top of the tower, in the act of removing the top stone. The restorer of the bridge had paid homage to the legend by placing it there.We crossed the bridge, and I stood appalled as I saw where the GR65, our path, led us – straight up the cliff on big steps! It took a long time to scale that cliff, and my right hip, previously silent, was protesting at every step. Nevertheless, we made it to the top and to the more leg friendly stony plateau. The views of the many bridges in Cahors, of the city and of the autumn toned slopes surrounding us were magnificent.The large Magne Cross, a little in the line of Eiffel in its structure, was dwarfed by the scale of nature all around. It felt exhilarating to be out and walking again

We were captivated by the colours all around us – the reds and yellows of grapes, the shades of orange, brown, green and yellow of the trees, the deep emerald of moss and silver grey green of lichen, and the greys and whites of the rocks. A plantation of pines cut across an autumn hillside the colour of fire.

Somehow, the walking was easy, even the part alongside the road, which seemed to go endlessly uphill. We joked about the GR65 path makers thinking of putting in a challenge now and then so that pilgrims would not get complacent. It was the second week, the week in which I had anticipated that my body would have adjusted and my mind would be on higher things. We walked along in silence until the smell of silage brought a thought into my mind. How is silage fed out to the animals if it is a rotting mass? I voiced my question and then realised that such was the calibre of my deep and meaningful thinking.

Keith was thinking about our year as a whole, about how experiences rated. I refused to rate things, because I felt that that would diminish some and I had loved them all. He was able to rate Zanzibar as a high favourite, and being able to speak French well enough to have interesting conversations as a surprising and very satisfying achievement. Farkwa had been great, so had Turkey. He was sounding a bit like me, in love with it all. When we thought about going overseas, I made a long list of my goals, and then discarded it so that whatever happened would be fine. As we thought about the year, the list of goals seemed to have been pretty much achieved anyway. The countries to visit list had definitely not been covered, but that was somehow not so important now. One of the greatest things that I had gained was a sense of being at a wonderful stage of our lives, when we are in a position to decide to do things and then to do them. I didn’t feel ‘over the hill’ anymore, I was back to being excited all the time and I was looking forward to grabbing life with both hands for years to come. I also understood more about the part of me that always wants to give out, having met so many other similar people. We simply thrive on meeting and getting to know people and giving to others. It is a productive and rewarding use of time.

We plodded on up and down hills, accepting each one because it was there and had a little red and white marker on it saying that this was the way. There are not many options on the Chemin – go fast, go slow, have breaks but keep going. The forever forward walking releases you from decision making and is perhaps a form of meditation. Thoughts ran in and out of my brain, sometimes to do with language, sometimes happenings from childhood, sometimes a conversation from the day before, a random kind of procession that I reviewed but let slip away again. Time alternated between racing or seeming to have stood still. It didn’t mean much other than in terms of arriving at out destination before dark.

As we progressed gingerly down a steep hill side, we could hear some hounds baying at the bottom as if they were readying to attack the intruders. It occurred to me that a chop would have been a handy weapon, since we weren’t sure what the dog spray did to aggressive dogs if you sprayed them. I thought that the term, ‘dog bomb’, that Michel and Corine had used was extreme, and implied that something really terrible might happen to the dog. Then there was also our language difficulty of having two inappropriate words in French at our disposal to explain what had happened to the owner. We could say that the dog had ‘stung’ us or that it had ‘eaten us’. The chop option would have no lasting effects and we could hurry on while the dog was waylaid and have nothing to explain at all. Keith pointed out that if we had bought a chop on the first day and not used it, it would be rotten by now and that the spray had definite advantages over that. Also, we would need more than one chop if lots of dogs attacked. And what if they were really hungry and one chop was only an appetiser. These thoughts took so long to discuss that we had reached the last bend. We were going to be eaten or not. Luckily the twin dogs making all the noise were behind a fence - a high and strong one.

A cairn in the forest had been lovingly made, and then added to by many pilgrims placing small stones on top. The air was fresh, and although it was a cold day, we were warm from walking. We were feeling fit. It was still early and we were making great progress. Looking at the rain clouds up ahead, we decided to leave lunch until we arrived, which at the rate we were going would be at about 2 p.m.

Lascabanes is a tiny village with and a little river to match and some outlying houses and farms. While we consulted the booklet to remind us of which gite we had rung, I watched a lady leave her dogs at home and drive towards us. She asked where we were going, knew the gite we wanted and directed us, saying that the gite was next to the church. Her dogs watched from her gate, 200 metres away, where they obediently sat. As soon as she had driven out of sight, they looked up and down the road and then they were off to play, heading our way at top speed. Where were the two chops when you needed them? Luckily they were not hungry and had other entertainments in mind because they ignored us and tore into a yard in the town, barking wildly all the while.

Next to the church meant attached to the church.It was embarrassing to be so early when Keith had guaranteed that we would be late, basing his prediction on our past form. Still, it was starting to rain and so we were grateful to be allowed to stay in the entry area and eat lunch there while the cleaning continued. We felt well welcomed and it was a beautiful gite, with stunning large black and white photos taken by a walker on the Chemin years ago. One was taken on this day in 1999 and showed a snow covered landscape and the caption told of the fog that had finally cleared to give that view. I thought about what we were doing nine years ago – in the full throes of family life and both working – and wondered about the photographer and what he was doing now.

At last we could go to our room and change into some dry clothes. I was wet, not from the rain, which we had escaped, but from the transpiration between my back pack and my back, which once I stop walking seems to freeze.

An attempt at a stroll around the village was defeated by the rain, but I did have time to read a notice on the church door that said that the priest had been a hermit and a pilgrim and that if anyone wished to talk to him, he could be found at his home in the old school building with the cockle shell on the door. Celeste, at the gite, had told me that if we had any problems, to just walk along to the middle of the main street and knock on her door, the one with the cockle shell on it. Given that the main street was ‘the’ street, we realised that these directions were perfectly adequate. The church itself was intimate and with many simple painted statues. Rows of chairs were set out for the congregation.

We had declined the offer Celeste had made to fetch the priest so that he could bless our pilgrimage, feeling that it would have been a bit awkward with just us, having our feet washed but not having the same religious faith. What would have been ideal would have been to meet the priest and talk with him, given that he must have had a very interesting life.

Keith went outside to find a place where the mobile phone could have reception, and met a bearded man leaving the church and locking it up. His only conversation had been, ‘Bonjour,’ and when he returned, he apologised for missing the opportunity that would have enabled me to meet an ex-hermit and hear all about it, claiming that it was raining, cold and dark. Ah well, maybe in the morning the priest would be unlocking the door and I would happen to meet him.

The gite had a little shop which was now closed, but Celeste opened it up so that we could buy a few items for dinner. The kitchen was superb and the lovely big dining room must be a very convivial place when it is warm weather and pilgrims from all over the world are meeting and relaxing there. I read quite a bit of the books on the history of the Chemin, and on the shifting whereabouts of St Jacques’ remains. Keith was a little stuck at the idea of his body being transported on a stone boat in the first place, and I was amazed to read that Sir Francis Drake was at one time blamed for the relics needing to be hidden, and for the fact that those who hid it failed to tell anyone where it was. We didn’t have time to read very much, but whatever the history of the pilgrimage, and there were certainly some political expediencies for both church and state in maintaining it, for the pilgrims it has retained its allure. Each year more pilgrims walk it, or stages of it, as we are. The excellent infrastructure of gites and other accommodation along the way has grown with demand, and the paths we walked on were indeed well trodden.

Gentle rain was falling on this darling little village, so different in so many aspects to the large city of Cahors that we had left in the morning.

This pine plantation appears to be dying, as are others in the district. Many caterpillars build large nests in these trees but we don't know if there is any link between the caterpillars and a pine disease.