The Way of St James, Chemin de St Jacques, Part 2

The Way of St James begins in Le Puy-en-Velay in the Haute-Loire and continues for 750 kilometres, through southern and south-western rural France to Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port in the foothills of the Pyrenees. From here it crosses the border into Spain and continues a further 780 km (or more depending on the route chosen) to the holy city of Santiago de Compostela.

This is the second in a three-part series on walking the Way of St James.

Conques to Montréal-Du-Gers (310 km)

Down the street that Charlemagne marched in the 8th century and across the world heritage listed Roman bridge. A steep walk up to the Chapelle Sainte-Foy where monks once rang the bell to let the Abbey below know they were safely on their way. The sky above the ancient cathedral crisscrossed with orange and pink jet trails. The first rays of the sun blazing the hillsides purple with heather.

Crossing the green meridian that runs along the axis ‘North Pole – Paris – South Pole’ and was planted with a line of trees in 2000 to mark the Millenium. The scuttling of rust coloured lizards. The long grass alive with cicadas. A flutter of orange and black butterflies. Rows of corn curving across the undulating hillsides.

A basket of perfectly ripe peaches left outside a house for the indulgence of pilgrims. In the church in Decazeville, the most sweet-tempered of Camino angels plies us with cake and coffee and fills our pockets with treats for the journey.

We are here to see the Stations of the Cross, painted by the renowned French Symbolist artist, Gustave Moreau. Despite holding these invaluable treasures, the city seems forlorn. Once an industrial heartland and home to the largest open-cut coal mine in Europe, Decazeville has struggled since the last mine closed in 2001. It is investing hope in a street art festival and the creation of bold, bright frescoes to beautify the city and transform its image and reputation.

The courting dance of butterflies. Along grassy byways flanked by chestnut trees, across the Lot River and into Livinhac-le-Haut. The days much quieter since we left Conques and the most oft-walked first 200 kilometres of the Way of St James.

Migrating swallows, the drumming of woodpeckers, hawks on the hunt. Up into the forest, down green lanes and through small villages. Farmers out herding cattle for market. Tall, stone pigeonniers with cone-shaped roofs. Old timber carts and haylofts reached via rough-hewn wooden ladders. Wells still in use. A visit to the Romanesque chapel of Sainte-Madeleine with its beautiful 14th-century murals of the four New Testament evangelists.

In the well preserved and lively old-town of Figeac, we linger over an aperitif with Jean-Pierre and Jacky. These two Frenchmen have become our guardians, smoothing the way for us when our tenuous grasp of the language fails us. Later, we spend some time talking with the gracious German couple we met at dinner last night. These companionable conversations, about the day and life more generally, are one of the highlights of the Way. Coming together as the day exhales. The camaraderie of strangers sharing an experience. The knowledge that it is transitory sometimes ‘catching the heart off guard and blowing it open.’

There’s a mist rolling across the causse, the limestone plateau of Quercy. Taking an old Roman road through forests of boxwood, maple and scraggy oaks already on the turn. Feasting on figs and wild berries.

Beehive shaped drystone caselles (shelters for shepherds and flocks). Drystone walls with small openings for sheep to pass through. Solid old three-storey farmhouses and barns with grassy livestock ramps.

A visit to a gothic church. A place of beauty and solace. Yet, like many churches in the aftermath of the inquiries into child sexual abuse, it’s also a place where you can sense the dark heart of Catholicism beating and it’s sweet relief to step back outside into the light.

Before we leave Carjac we join our charming host, Evelyne, for breakfast. We talk about her art practice and life in this village of 1,200 inhabitants with its numerous associations and lively dining and dancing scene. Then the talk turns, as it does everywhere we go, to climate change and the failure of politicians to act in the long term interests of the planet. It’s been an alarmingly hot and dry summer here, hotter and drier than anyone imagined possible, and people fear for the future.

Fire on the water as the sun catches the mist floating on the river and sets it alight. The strange carrying cry of a male deer in search of a mate. A gaily decorated pop-up cafe on the outskirts of a village serving up homemade apple pie, coffee and, for our benefit as we depart, a scratchy rendition of the Australian national anthem.

Neolithic dolmen tombs scattered about the limestone plateau. Oak forests providing shade on this cloudless blue-sky day. Eager for lunch we stop at Limogne-en-Quercy but fail to find any attentive service, let alone a meal. A rare occurrence in France. We walk out of two cafes and make do with the chocolate we are carrying and the figs we find en route.

Michael’s achilles is tender and, seeing this, Jacky generously offers the use of his brother’s car should Michael need a rest from walking. Although we don’t need to avail ourselves of the offer, we are touched by his kindness.

Morning swallows. A coolness in the air. Doves cooing. Across the limestone karst, along drystone wall lanes, pausing to stare into a well so dizzyingly deep that the water it holds becomes a swirl of stars as you look down into it.

We stop to talk to two walkers and realise they are the Australian couple we’ve heard stories of. Robert is in his early 60s and has dementia. His wife Anne, a woman of extraordinary courage and amazing grace, is making this journey possible for them both in the hope that the memory of walking Caminos together is not lost forever.

Lavender planted in rows in rocky red soil and vineyards that produce the tannic wines for which Cahors is famous. Here is this city of art and history with its narrow alleyways and half-timbered houses we say farewell to Jean-Pierre, a good man leading a good life. He has walked this route before, all the way to Santiago de Compostela, and has re-walked the first 350 kilometres of it to ease the way for his friend Jacky, a first-time Camino walker. Later today, Jean-Pierre will catch the train home to Alsace and Jacky, recently retired, will step out on the Way of St James with his son. Together they’ll walk on as far as the spirit takes them.

A cold morning, the coldest we’ve experienced. Mist rising off the Lot River as we cross the 14th-century Pont Valentré, one of the finest fortified bridge in Europe. A stone devil clutches at a cornerstone that he’s trying desperately to dislodge in revenge for being tricked by the master bridge builder.

Lavender blue butterflies. Pale stone villages. A truffiére where oak and hazelnut trees are being cultivated to produce black truffles. Limestone cliffs off in the distance. Scrim cloud cover. The midday Angelus bells ringing out as we walk into Lascabanes. The morning’s walk bliss after yesterday’s rest day in Cahors and today’s easy terrain.

Fields of sorghum and blackened sunflowers. Plums ripe for the eating. A lavoir, a public outdoor laundry, common in Europe into the 20th century. Shady rest places where locals have left cool drinks for pilgrims to slake their thirst. We barely see another soul all day and lose ourselves in reverie until a mirage jet fighter comes out of nowhere, shattering our thoughts and bringing us sharply back to the 21st century.

A night in a gîte in an old presbytery. Our dinner companions include a free-spirited French couple in their late 60s who we saw earlier, walking hand in hand and deeply engaged in conversation with each other; a smart 30-something-year old from Bretagne and his gregarious father, walking the Way of St James together, section by section over several years; and a New Zealand family. The parents and three boys aged fifteen, eleven and three have taken 18 months off to walk the 1,500 kilometres from Le-Puy-en-Velay to Santiago before exploring other parts of Europe and the Pacific. The French are incredulous that a country would allow children to be absent from school for so long. In France this is impossible!

Rain overnight. A day of rolling landscapes, grapevines and orchards. We arrive in Moissac with just enough time to visit the Abbey Church of Saint-Pierre, a former Benedictine monastery founded in the seventh century. Its serene cloisters are renowned for their intricately carved columns and capitals. At Vespers, we sit quietly in the darkening church and listen in rapture to a sisterhood of veiled nuns singing in harmony.

Out on the trail before sunrise, following the towpath alongside the Canal du Deux Mers. The plane trees on either side of the canal provide a tunnel of green shade and watery green light. A kingfisher flashes brightly from water to tree and back again. Canal boats make their languid way to the Canal du Midi and on to Toulouse.

After we leave the towpath we find ourselves once again in a landscape patchworked with sunflower and corn crops. There’s a newly planted vineyard strung with Tibetan prayer flags; blue for the sky, white for the air, red for fire, green for water and yellow for the earth. May the rains fall at the proper time. May the crops be bountiful. May all beings be well and happy.

Buvettes (small self-serve refreshments stands) en route, including one offering slices of delicious plum cake and bags of rich, sweet d’Agen plums.

Unsuccessful in our attempts to find a place to sleep this evening, we call into the tourist office in Auvillar where a particularly obliging staff member not only finds us accommodation for tonight but for the next three nights as well. Bless her.

Pale, flower-festooned villages shuttered against the sun this warm 28 degrees afternoon. A still inhabited 12th-century castle. The church at Saint-Antoine-de-Pont-d’Arratz with its recently discovered medieval murals; one of St George and the dragon and one telling the story of St Blaise.

A beer in the sun at the end of the day in Miradoux, chatting to an Englishman who has lived in the village for 20 years. The talk inevitably turns to Brexit and the consternation it is causing the expatriate community here, no longer certain about their right to remain in France and anxious about their British pensions, the value of which is being eroded by the impact of political uncertainty on the exchange rate.

Quinces, persimmons and apples ripening. Migrant workers from Africa toiling in the fields. Sunflowers being harvested. Long abandoned hilltops castles still standing as stone sentinels in the landscape.

In the spa town of Lectoure, we linger over coffee in a bookshop cafe, enjoying the urbanity of the surroundings. One of the oldest towns in the Gers, Lectoure has a Cathedral, ramparts, a wealth of 17th and 18th-century buildings and an exceptionally good boulangerie.

A slow, quiet afternoon, sitting on a shady terrace looking out onto a sundrenched landscape of undulating fields and forests. For the first time, we can just make out the Pyrennes, hazy and way off in the distance.

The darkening sky is cross-hatched with microbats. At dinner, we talk with Joy, an English woman living between France and Switzerland. In the past year, she has borne the death of her father, an acrimonious divorce and the loss of her job. She is limping badly but still determined to reach Santiago de Compostela, a thousand kilometres away. Walking the Way of St James slowly and all the while grappling with the profundity of the changes in her life.

The earth’s shadow the same pale blue as the pastel shutters. The temperature on the rise and forecast to be over 30 degrees today. We enter the heart of Armagnac country, a land of wild tulips, green forests and vineyards. It is said that the wine used for making Armagnac is unremarkable until time and alchemy transform it into a golden liqueur.

Two deer in a bare field. Frogs diving into a pond. The heat rising. A stop in Condom to take in the civility of this Gascoigne town with its lively bars and impressive Cathedral then on through the hot afternoon to Montréal-du-Gers. A much-needed beer in the shade of a deep, cool verandah and, revived, on to the gîte that we are sharing with a group of thirteen from a parish near Lyon. Christian in belief and in practice, they welcome us to their dinner table and afterwards entertain us with a performance of traditional French folk songs.

See also: Part 1, Le Puy-en-Velay to Conques 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…