The only negative was a deluge of rain, prompting frequent falls of ice from the trees, a couple of which landed on me. My jacket did well enough keeping me dry, but I couldn’t do much to protect my face. At lunchtime, I found a flat tree stump a short distance off the track and forced myself to stop for fifteen minutes, in the interests of looking after my body, but sitting in the rain is never pleasant.
The weather was clearing by the time I got moving again. I had walked no more than two hundred metres when I rounded a turn to see a familiar white jacket. Its wearer was sitting under shelter on the steps of a small chapel eating an apple. She called and waved and I managed a wave back, but there was no point stopping now.
Perhaps I should have. By the end of Day Four, as the sole diner at a hamburger restaurant in Briennon, I was not yet lonely, but I was beginning to wonder how long it would be before I craved some company.
15
ZOE
I was now walking on rolling farmland between villages, the French countryside of postcards and coffee-table books. The path was well marked, not only by scallop shells, but by crucifixes. Small and large, rustic and elaborate, Jesus at peace, Jesus writhing in agony. They were hard to ignore on a route that went past every church in every village. Modern pilgrims might be more spiritual than religious but the Catholic relics were set in stone.
I saw the intricately patterned roof of the ancient church at La Bénisson-Dieu over hedges and the bare arms of oak and elm trees. The village’s only boulangerie had closed when I arrived at 1 p.m. What kind of bakery closes for lunch? Until 4 p.m.?
Wandering around the church ramparts, I nearly fell over another walker, sitting eating a pastry, back against the wall, with his legs out across the track. He looked young—all limbs, as teenagers sometimes are.
‘Bonjour,’ I said. Big eyes above prominent cheekbones peered up from under a beanie.
‘Bonjour. American?’
‘Oui. Zoe.’
‘I am Bernhard. From Germany.’ He thrust a paper bag at me. ‘You are welcome if hungry. The bakery gives it for nothing. It is leftover and I am a pèlerin.’ Good karma, paid forward. I felt an immediate connection.
When he stood up, he towered over me; there was more muscle to those limbs than I had thought. He was twenty-five, and had walked alone, five hundred kilometres from his home in Stuttgart. He had fallen out with his father over politics, lifestyle and his rejection of the bourgeoisie, and now, with neither home nor money, he had taken to the road. It was a story I could relate to, though I’d been younger when I fought those battles.
I was the first pèlerin he had seen, and whether it was loneliness or a chance to practise English, he was enthusiastic about walking with me. We talked about the Chemin and American politics. He was smart and well-informed. I had found the person I needed: a guy with weeks of experience of low-budget travelling.
‘Where do you sleep?’ he asked.
‘Hotels and chambres d’hôte.’
‘How much do you pay?’
I told him.
‘Too much.’ He was right about that. ‘You are a pèlerin. Lodgings should be free. I go to Mary.’
‘Nuns?’
‘The official place. The mairie.’
The mayor’s place. Civic offices. ‘What do they do for pilgrims?’
‘For pèlerins they find accommodation. I have slept with many women.’
I figured something had been lost in translation. ‘Do you pay?’
Bernhard grinned and shook his head. There was something appealing about him and his light layer of chin fuzz. I could imagine women having their maternal spirit stirred by his smile.
In Renaison, Bernhard announced he would be stopping for the day. I decided to see if French women’s generosity could be extended to the sisterhood. Bernhard disappeared into the bathroom to spruce himself up, after suggesting I do likewise.
‘It is important to look good.’
Bernhard emerged with hair slicked back, and the top buttons of his shirt undone. I couldn’t help thinking that Tessa and Lauren would have been impressed. The middle-aged woman in the mairie smiled at him and made a phone call. Her friend could put us both up.
Madame Beaulieu’s home was only a short walk from the mairie. She had a neat room for each of us and insisted on washing our clothes. Dinner—after I had passed my chicken to Bernhard—was pasta, bread and cheese, and an apple tart to die for.
The only downside was the religious paraphernalia—and talk. My lack of French meant I was spared much of it, but Bernhard chatted enthusiastically as he helped clean up. Madame Beaulieu seemed to be caring for us out of a mistaken sense of religious fellowship: giving us an accueil jacquaire—a St Jacques welcome.
When we left the next morning, she kissed us and wished us Bon Chemin. Bernhard translated: ‘She says to leave what you feel is right. For the works of the church.’
I was torn between my animosity toward religion and gratitude for Madame Beaulieu’s generosity. There was no amount that I could put in her tin that didn’t take something away from my integrity. I left fifteen euros, but told Bernhard there would be no more Jacquarian welcomes for me.
The next day, the path wound up and down hills, often on asphalt, which was tough on my feet. From the rocky crags above the Loire I could see mist rising off the water. The path descended to St Jean St Maurice, with its tower high above the river.
I had started earlier than Bernhard but he caught me, stayed for a while, then strode ahead.
He was waiting by the tiny church. ‘We will use the gîte—the hostel.’
Good: that was supposed to be the idea.
‘Five stars.’ Bernhard clarified that he was referring to its online rating by pèlerins, rather than the system that the Four Seasons belonged to. The rates at gîtes varied, but they usually offered a good-deal evening meal. Most also had kitchens. ‘But do not take the breakfast. Better coffee at the bar, and bread and pastries are only one euro each. Or free.’ I said I’d cook.
The municipal gîte was a small building near the centre of the village. A woman of maybe forty met us there and opened up. There was a tiny kitchen, a dormitory for six and just one bathroom, with two open shower stalls. In the hall, the stove had a pile of wood beside it. Ten euros per bunk bed, plus five to eat. Way cheaper than a chambre d’hôte or hotel, but my money still wasn’t going to get me to the border. Maybe I would find what I had lost—peace of mind?—before then. So far, I had been too busy to do much thinking.
I hadn’t shared a bedroom or bathroom with anyone other than my partner or children for twenty years. I tried to picture the dormitory full of pilgrims of varying ages, nationalities and genders, and a line for the showers with everyone in shorts and towels.
I went to put my pack on a bunk and the woman freaked out.
‘You must leave the pack in the hall,’ Bernhard explained, ‘to avoid transporting bedbugs.’
‘Bedbugs? You’re saying they have bedbugs?’
‘Probably not, but it is…preventative. Prophylactique.’ He grinned at our host and then me.
There were baskets to unload our gear into. In the bedroom, I chose the bunk that gave me the most distance. About three feet. Bernhard spread his stuff over two other bunks.
The kitchen had a bulletin board covered in tourist information, cupboards full of chipped plates, and assorted pots and pans. I headed to the local épicerie—in this case a store attached to a gourmet restaurant—and bought pasta and vegetables for me, and a can of bolognaise sauce for Bernhard. When I got back, he had showered and was towelling his upper body in the dorm, wearing only a pair of tight briefs.
While I cooked, Bernhard got the fire going and uncorked a bottle of wine he had been given by the bedbug woman. The fire heated up the small hostel surprisingly quickly. With the table set for two, lit by a candle Bernhard had found, it could have been an intimate romantic dinner—had I not been with someone young enough to be my son.
Be
dbug woman returned after we’d eaten. Bernhard was putting on the charm and I left them talking while I cleaned up and did a quick sketch. I made the woman a lot younger than she was, not that that was likely to worry her, but it did look like she was flirting. When I gave it to her the next morning over a breakfast of white bread and jelly, she blushed. I left Bernhard sleeping and walked out to find that night had covered the landscape with a dusting of snow.
16
MARTIN
Snow was always going to be a risk this early in the year. I hadn’t been aware of it falling as I slept in my riverfront bed and breakfast in St Jean St Maurice at the end of my sixth day.
The cart was not great on the slippery surface, but nor was it the disaster Maarten’s golf trolley would have been. The large wheel gave it good ground clearance, and the narrow profile was essential as I negotiated tracks in the pine forest. The problem was at the human end: maintaining foot traction, particularly uphill. I slipped and fell twice, turning the cart over with me the second time. No damage done: the surface was soft.
Five hours into the day, I came to a village with a bar-tabac open. Seated on the curb outside was a lanky blond lad beside a large backpack. He jumped to his feet as I arrived.
‘Bonjour,’ I said, and added, ‘Anglais.’
He shook my hand and responded in English: ‘I am Bernhard. From Germany.’
Bernhard refused my offer of coffee: he had his own full thermos. But he waited while I finished mine and used the time to examine my cart.
‘Where did you buy this?’
I told him the story.
‘That explains the poor quality of construction. I am not insulting you; you were forced to assemble it from components not intended for the purpose. Mass production allows for all components to be specifically designed.’
Thank you for the engineering lesson. ‘It’s a prototype.’
‘The single wheel is a mistake.’
‘You think so?’
‘I am sure.’
I let it go. He was almost a caricature of the arrogant German technician and it sat comically with his youth. I’d seen it before: international students—and tourists—struggling to assert their identity in a foreign place and exaggerating their supposed national traits. I’d probably done the same myself.
When we were back in the snow, I spotted footprints and pointed them out to Bernhard.
‘Zoe,’ he said, and we established that the two of them had spent the previous night at the same hostel, not for the first time.
Walking with a companion was a new experience. The narrow tracks and the concentration needed to walk in snow precluded conversation for much of the time, but there were stretches along wider paths where we walked side by side.
He was a talker, and had typical middle-class left-wing views, not dissimilar to those I had held at his age. His position on the pilgrimage was as rigid in its own way as Monsieur Chevalier’s.
‘There should be no charge at the hostels. Not for pilgrims.’
‘What about the privately owned ones?’
‘Hostels shouldn’t be run for profit. It is the government’s responsibility to provide accommodation for pilgrims.’
I had a certain amount of sympathy. Every French village, no matter how small, has a mairie, with associated administrators, even if it lacks any other services. Maybe some basic accommodation for pilgrims in the smaller villages as well as the bigger towns would be a sensible use of those resources. Not to mention a coffee machine. If you’re going to have a socialist state, at least get the benefits.
We parted company when I stopped at a bed and breakfast. Bernhard was initially unimpressed that I was not staying at a hostel, but was convinced by the simple argument that I was putting something back into the rural economy. His political views did not seem to be any better founded than his opinions on cart design.
For the next couple of days, without ever making an arrangement, Bernhard caught up with me mid-morning, and we would walk together for a while until I took a break and he hared off ahead. He was cagey about his age, but I’d have guessed twenty. We talked about the day-to-day practicalities of the Camino, and he did his best to educate me on the politics of my own country. He was still staying at the hostels with Zoe, who was leaving an hour or so ahead of both of us each day. He mentioned more than once, heavy-handedly, that she and I should bunk up to save on accommodation costs. Apparently, she was keen on the idea.
17
ZOE
Bernhard was even more concerned about money than I was. In Pommiers, he offered to negotiate beds for both of us—in my case, without religious ties. He told me to wait outside.
‘It is all organised,’ he announced when he emerged from the mairie. He was not alone. ‘I will sleep with madame…’
Madame was an attractive woman a bit younger than me. Beside her was a short man of about sixty, with sparse grey hair, sucking his belly in as he tucked his shirt into his pants.
‘And you,’ said Bernhard, ‘will sleep with monsieur.’
‘On va manger au restaurant.’ The man smiled, broadly. Dinner included.
‘Parlez-vous anglais?’ I asked.
‘A little.’ His enthusiasm might have been infectious if I hadn’t felt like Bernhard had just pimped me as a paid escort: a dinner date in exchange for a bed.
Bernhard’s madame was locking the door. I grabbed him. ‘You have to tell him I can’t.’
Bernhard looked puzzled. There was a rapid conversation after which he told me it was fixed. Monsieur would pay for the meal. I gave up.
In the car to my host—Henri’s—house, I discovered that he had more than a little English. He was a public servant—a fonctionnaire—and one did not attain such a position without a knowledge of English, though he had to apologise for being out of practice. He turned my backpack face down in his trunk.
‘Not your team?’ I said.
‘Not my team.’
We arrived at a large rambling home, where he made coffee and showed me photos of his children and grandchildren, who lived in nearby villages. He was divorced and had moved here to care for his mother, who had since died.
I tried to explain I didn’t need to eat out and was happy to cook. Even pasta. ‘Je suis vegetarian.’
‘It is my pleasure that you accompany me. The vegetables will be no problem.’
We drove to the restaurant in an old car whose passenger door didn’t open from the inside. The upholstery smelt of cigarettes.
It took us half an hour to reach our destination: St Jean St Maurice, where Bernhard and I had stayed the previous night. We parked outside the gourmet restaurant where I had bought provisions for dinner.
The host knew Henri: hugs and kisses and rapid French. I picked up the word végétarien. ‘Poisson?’ he said, looking at me.
I sometimes ate fish when I needed protein. I’d done enough walking to deserve some. I nodded.
Henri explained that he had left the menu to the host, who was the restaurant owner. He returned with a bottle of white wine. A young server with a fresh outbreak of acne brought bread and an appetiser of three teaspoon-size servings of mousse: red, green and brown.
Henri was watching me like a parent watching a child open Christmas presents. Suddenly the craziness of the whole thing hit me: I was in a French restaurant with a friendly and intelligent gentleman, a grandfather, who had offered me hospitality and tried to put me at ease. It wasn’t Monsieur Chevalier with his ‘take what is offered’ but Tessa in my head saying, ‘For God’s sake, Mom, loosen up.’
I smiled and let myself enjoy it.
The mousses turned out to be beet, apple and something I couldn’t identify—rich and creamy, with a subtle taste that was hard to place. Then a tart packed with a variety of crisp vegetables, poking out like pins from a pincushion.
The fish was turbot, expertly filleted by the owner and delicious. A cart of cheeses followed: soft and hard, from white to red and then blue, some so furry t
hat I would have thrown them out. And all great. Forget about being vegan: I was starting to think about opening a cheese deli back home.
Then, pastry and cream, and petits fours. I ate them without a trace of guilt. No matter how much I was eating, my clothes were getting looser.
On the ride back, Henri, who had kept me entertained through the meal with stories of his time in North Africa, was still fussing about the food.
‘Was the appetiser…okay?’
‘It was delicious. What was the brown mousse?’
‘Foie gras. He makes his own. Not technically vegetarian, but only a small quantity.’
At his house, Henri poured me a glass of something strong. He wanted to keep chatting, but I was exhausted. He showed me the spare bedroom and I fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.
I was woken by a knock at 8 a.m.
‘Café?’
‘Dix—ten minutes,’ I called, scrambling to dress.
‘Will you stay another night?’ Henri asked over the coffee and a croissant still warm from the baker’s oven. I could tell that he didn’t expect me to say yes.
I had felt bad enough at the restaurant. As I left, kisses on both cheeks and coffee in my thermos, I made a decision that I would not take advantage of anybody’s loneliness or religious duty again. I could not begin each day expecting that charity would get me through. Le Puy was four days away. I wouldn’t get much further unless I could find a way of financing the rest of my Camino.
Bernhard caught up with me at lunchtime. ‘A good time last night, oui?’ From his expression, it looked like his had been. His beanie had ridden halfway up his head, making it look elongated and alien.
‘Non,’ I said firmly. I poured him the remains of my coffee.
Two Steps Forward Page 6
