The Way of St James, Chemin de St Jacques, Part 1

Early each morning, as they have for centuries, pilgrims gather in the romanesque Cathédral Notre-Dame-du-Puy to be blessed before starting their journey on the Way of St James, the oldest Camino de Santiago route outside of Spain. Down a flight of 60 steps, pausing to take a last look back at the imposing white and black striped facade of the cathedral, reminiscent of the great mosque of Cordoba, and onto an ancient trail first walked by Bishop Godescacl in the winter of 951 AD.

The route, waymarked since the 1970s as the GR65, begins in Le Puy-en-Velay in the Haute-Loire and continues for 750 kilometres, through southern and south-western France, to Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port in the foothills of the Pyrenees. From there it continues a further 780 km (or more depending on the route chosen) to the holy city of Santiago de Compostela.

People walk the Way for a myriad of reasons: the adventure and physicality of a long-distance route; to slowly, almost imperceptibly, become immersed in the nature and culture of a region; ‘to put themselves in the way of beauty’; as a rite of passage, leaving behind one phase of life and walking into another; as a meditation, to still the mind and be more present in the moment; for the solitude and the chance ‘to be alone with one’s thoughts’; to remember those they hold dear. Traditional religious pilgrims still walk the way to honour their faith, to praise their saints and to seek redemption from their God.

Largely a journey into rural France, the route winds its way through the streets of Le Puy-en-Velay, traverses a volcanic landscape of rough-hewn flatlands and tall conical hills (puys), crosses the Margeride plateau and continues on through the Gévaudan, once the realm of a mysterious, savage beast. It climbs up to the wild and beautiful Aubrac high plains before entering the fertile Lot valley with its deep, wooded gorges and medieval villages. Then it’s on through rolling green landscapes to Gers, famous for its Armagnac brandy and fortified hilltop towns. Fields of corn and sunflowers become prevalent until the Pyrenees come into view and the route enters the Basque country.

Le Puy-en-Velay to Conques (200 km)

A Sunday night in Le Puy-en-Velay so still you can hear the beating heart of the commune, the melodic click of bobbins as nimble hands make the lace the area is famous for and, on the hour, the clanging of bells from the cathedral that overlooks the city.

The next morning at dawn we walk down a quiet cobblestoned street and climb the steep stairs to the Cathedral; we two Australians, our French friend Jean and his 10-year-old granddaughter Louise, doing her first multi-day walk with her papy. There’s a crowd of over a hundred pilgrims gathered in the Cathedral for the bishop’s blessing. He wishes us ‘shade in the heat of the day, light in the darkness of the night and relief in tiredness’. We accept a stranger’s prayer to carry on the journey, light a candle each in memory of our mothers and step out into the day.

We walk through old volcano country on lanes marked with wayside crosses that honour the dead and protect holy wells. This area was once a lake under which lurked active volcanoes that eventually erupted, leaving in their wake great rock outcrops in a scarred landscape.

Ancient tracks lined with coppiced ash trees; fields of slate green Le Puy lentils; squat, low, thick-walled farm buildings with stone ramps for herding animals into their winter quarters. 13th-century Romanesque chapels dedicated to the patron saint of pilgrims. The day warm, almost hot. The route exceptionally well waymarked and interspersed with information boards for the inquisitive pilgrim. Louise is without walking poles so Jean sculpts a bâton for her from a length of hazelwood. Come evening, we celebrate being on this journey together over a communal dinner at L’Komposte Bar, the first of the many we will share with predominantly French-speaking pilgrims.

The sky is ablaze as the sun rises. We climb up to a hilltop tower and a beautiful stone chapel, all that remains of a once-grand, 13th-century castle. Into hills of beech and pine woods that are home to otters, falcons and wild salmon. Following the way of the Beast of Gévaud, a mythical wolf-like creature that raged in this area in the lead up to the French Revolution, killing hundreds of women and children before being slain by a shepherd. We shadow the Allier River as it winds its way between the ancient lava flows of the Devès Plateau, through black granite country and past farms that see nobody during the long, harsh winters.

Cowbells and fighter jets are the somewhat discordant soundtrack of our afternoon. We pass through hamlets of blunt, dark stone buildings, their austerity relieved by brightly painted doors and shutters.

Fantastical carved wooden sculptures on the outskirts of Sangues. A poignant diorama of the life of Saint Bénilde, educator and patron saint of accordion players. We pause outside the Romanesque church of Saint-Médard. Solemn bells ring out and the villagers congregate to mourn the passing of one of their own.

Our hosts for the evening, Sebastian and Sylvie, join the 13 pilgrims gathered around their dinner table. They offer an aperitif of kir and white wine, provide red wine to match the carefully prepared main course and a digestif of calvados to end the convivial and generous-spirited evening, the conversation wide-ranging, the tone liberal.

In the morning they wish us bon chemin as we leave, the air still cool, mist rising from the valley floor, the landscape bathed in golden light. Along rural backroads, past granite outcrops and green fields and up into the pine forests. Trees gnarled by wind and ice and tapped for turpentine. Men bringing in hay and wood before the season turns. Hedges sweet with fragrant honeysuckle. Up higher into beechwoods, their noble trees planted to pay for weddings and the purchase of new estates. Sunlight illuminating the canopy and drenching the world in bright green light.

We feast on wild berries; raspberries, blackberries and blueberries. A falcon hovers in the sky directly above us. We call in at a farm near Le Falzet to buy cheese, chosen by Jean from a hay-lined box deep within a stone barn. Continuing to climb we ease our way up onto the high open plateau with its drailles (droving ways), shepherd’s bothies and lush meadows. There are violets and yellow gentians still in flower and the first pale mauve crocuses of autumn.

Clouds build and not long after we arrive at the 13th century Domaine du Sauvage, a great electrical storm tears the sky apart. Those walkers still out on the trail are left exposed to a fury of thunder, lightning and torrential rain.

A bright crescent moon held within a fine golden ring. Fog moving across the valley. A beast howling from somewhere deep within the still-dark forest. Deer tracks in the soft earth. Spiderwebs like lace, white with dew. We walk out of dark volcanic country and into a lighter landscape of grassy meadows and pale stone buildings with pastel shutters. As the air warms it is aromatic with fir tree resin.

A farmer in gumboots on a bicycle, herding his cattle along an ancient droving route. Walking for part of the way on a Roman road that once connected Lyon to Toulouse. The church in Aumont-Aubrac is a former Benedictine priory founded in the 11th century. Houses with carved stone facades. Tall stone crosses with saints whose features have been erased by the vagaries of weather. Louise has now walked over 90 kilometres and despite today’s very warm weather, she skips along and falls easily into conversation with other walkers as her pace catches theirs.

A bed with linen sheets, soap and a towel. We are grateful for these simple pleasures at the end of the long, hot, dusty day.

Up into the Aubrac high plains. Wild and expansive and beautiful. Purple heather blooming and the last of the daffodils and gentians. Cows still grazing the summer pastures; pretty blonde Aubrac cattle with tapered horns and velvet eyes. Shepherd’s stone bothies scattered about. Small villages with communal ovens, roman wells and stone bridges. In winter it snows heavily up here and a great silence descends.

A day of mixed emotions. A brother writes with the sad news of a student’s death by suicide. A niece joyfully announces that she is pregnant with the first child of the next generation. We send messages of condolence to one and congratulations to the other. In the evening, our last with Jean and Louise, we attend a choral performance and let the soothing music of human voices wash over us.

One final morning stepping out with Jean and Louise. Up through beech forests and back out onto the high plains in the most beautiful light imaginable. The rising sun flaring into a V-shape across the sky and burnishing the plains, the cattle and the drystone buildings. The most hallowed of landscapes. Birds of prey soaring in the vast sky. No-one about except us. A sculpture inscribed with the words: Dans le silence et la solitude on n’entend plus que l’essentiel (In silence and solitude one does not hear more than the essential).

On through the village of Domerie d’Aubrac, founded in 1120 by a Flemish knight in gratitude for his deliverance from bandits and tempests. Then descending steeply, the vast magnificent plateau giving way to woodlands and gorges as we walk into the verdant Lot Valley.

At lunch, in Saint-Chély-d’Aubrac, we are joined by Louise’s parents and sister. We celebrate five and a half delightful days on the trail together with the very best food and wine of the region, provided generously by Jean. Louise delightedly shows her parents the pages of the English words she has learnt from us and the mementoes given to her by other pilgrims, touched by the grace and endeavour of this 10-year-old girl. Her parents remark on how much more serene Louise is after her walking journey. Her papy is more pleased than he can say.

Memories indelibly etched, emotional farewells made, we walk out into the heat of the afternoon. Across a 16th-century stone bridge, in and out of quiet hamlets and through woods of ash, oak, hazel, beech and chestnut trees. Saturday hunters out with their dogs.

Towards the end of our first 30-kilometre day, we are cheered by the sight of the distinctive, twisted spire of the 16th-century church of Saint-Côme-d’Olt. We discover that the only restaurant in town is booked out and the bar closes at 7:30 pm but so sustained are we by our lunch that we sit contentedly in the deserted plaza, sheltering from a rainstorm and gazing out onto a 10th-century chapel, a 14th-century chateau and 15th and 16th-century houses. Countries like France are old in very different ways to Australia. In Australia, there’s a culture that has endured for more than 50,000 years. Its traces are everywhere if you know how to look. In France, the vestiges of the successive waves of civilisations that have ransacked, settled and flourished in its villages and cities are more obvious to the stranger.

The town is beginning to stir as we walk out on the gothic bridge across the Lot River. Clouds swirling, a forecast of rain. A rooster crowing. The Lot Valley green and lush. Breakfast in a bar in Espalion comprising of coffee from the bar and croissants from a nearby boulangerie: businesses that complement rather than compete with each other.

Plums, pears and apples ripening. Following the river along its fertile valley and up and down through green forests; the ruins of ancient castles high up on hills, 11th and 12th-century churches and a string of medieval stone villages, amongst the most beautiful in France.

Steep, rocky climbing, some of it tough going. Fortunately, the rain holds off and the walking becomes more joy than effort. Our home for the night is a cabin in the woods on the outskirts of Golinhac. There’s only us in the campground. It’s the last day of the summer holidays and everyone else is on the road home. In a nearby restaurant we meet Jhodie, Brian and Annette; fellow Australians who are walking the Way. After an aperitif, the five of us settle into an evening of easy conversation and bonhomie.

Forests, villages of half-timbered medieval houses, farm buildings with solid grey stone walls and thick slate roofs, bars brimming with Sunday bohemians. Espeyrae, a village of 250, lost 80 of its citizens in the Great War of 1914-1918. It’s a common story. Villages that once supported four times their current population were decimated by the war. The men who left and never returned are ghosts now, memorialised in stone.

A day of unexpected reunions. A message from our French friends Maguey and André to say they are touring the medieval villages in this part of France and will be in Conques later in the day. As will we. We arrive first and, while we wait, we wander the streets of this remarkable village and almost walk past friends from Melbourne, so incredulous are we that they are here at the same time as us.

An enjoyable few hours in the company of friends, immersing ourselves in the history of medieval France. Then, once it’s dark, we sit in awe as the extraordinary sculpted tympanum of the Abbey church of Sainte-Foy is illuminated and its stone figures come to life. The players in the Last Judgement. Christ as Judge in the centre. His right hand pointing upwards to the saved and his left hand gesturing down to the damned. Hell on one side, heaven on the other.

We sleep in a dormitory in the great Abbey Sainte-Foy. Even though there are 90 pilgrims staying the night, the mood is tranquil. It is as if your breathing slows, your mind calms and hundreds of years of deep contemplation settle upon you as you enter the Abbey.

See also: Part 2,  Conques to Montréal-Du-Gers and Part 3, Montréal-Du-Gers to Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port

Our other French adventures include: the Tour du Mont Blanc and Summer in Provence…