The Way of St James, Chemin de St Jacques, Part 3

The final in a three-part series on walking the Way of St James. Starting in Le Puy-en-Velay, this ancient Way travels 750 km to Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port where it merges with other pilgrimage routes, crosses the Pyrenees and continues a further 780 km through Spain to the holy city of Santiago de Compostela.

Montréal-Du-Gers to Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port (240 km)

A warm, mist-shrouded morning. Weekend hunters on the move. Wandering through rolling vineyards before re-entering the green tunnel that is the old rail line from Bretagne and following it all the way to Eauze, a former Roman town that is now the capital of Armagnac. Flat, easy walking. Cows in the fields. The arresting, trumpeting call of a crane.

Bullrings start appearing in the towns we pass through. Here, in the southwest of France, no blood is shed in the ring. Instead, teams of matadors dodge and leap over cows with agility and courage, aiming to complete a set of a hundred dodges and eight leaps.

We’re now walking more kilometres a day than many people and no longer part of a confederacy of pilgrims moving in a wave across the landscape. Instead, we encounter new people each day. In Manciet we strike up a conversation with a pilgrim from northern NSW who is journeying with an Edinburgh-based French woman. He‘s not met any other Australians and is missing the ease of exchange between people who assume commonality without knowing much about each other.

At day’s end we find our hotel, take off our boots, down a cold beer and order food. Revived, we attempt to check-in, only to learn that due to plumbing issues they would rather not have guests. Sighing, we put our boots back on and walk another nine weary kilometres to the 11th-century town of Nogaro.

A balmy evening. The next morning, the moon full and pale in the early morning sky. Lizards on the move as the day warms. A field of ducks huddled together, awaiting their fate; alongside Armagnac, foie gras and magret de canard (duck breast) are the regional specialities.

Undulating vineyards give way to large, flat expanses of corn. Once this area was divided into small fields and meadows which, after harvest, were at the disposal of the community for grazing livestock, foraging, fuel gathering, etc. But, just as in Britain, commoners lost these traditional rights with the introduction of enclosure, an agrarian reform that saw small holdings consolidated, fenced and deeded to one owner. As a consequence, large numbers of people were forced to leave rural areas to seek work as labourers in the burgeoning cities. Many trees, hedgerows and the wildlife they supported went as well.

A farmer in a field, milking cows by hand. Figs ripe for the picking. The Pyrenees taking shape; at Miramont there are hazy views of cols, peaks and mountain ranges. We walk into the forested foothills and see white egrets and a falcon on the hunt.

An aperitif and dinner in the medieval fortified town of Arzacq-Arraziguet with Stéphane and Laurence, two French walkers who live part of the year in Paris and the remainder in the French Alps. Laurence honed her English in Ireland and has a particular affection for its wild west coast.

On the edge of town, an otter swimming across the lake. A white heron fishing. It’s still almost dark at 7 am this morning. Autumn is closing in.

Offerings of first-of-the-season apples left for passing pilgrims. Abandoned farms. The vernacular architecture and dress changing in style. We notice pelote courts, white block buildings, red shutters and black basque berets.

A strange encounter with a woman walking the Way, carrying only her phone and a packet of cigarettes. She’s dressed for town rather than the dust of the track and her head is full of wild stories. We listen for a time and then bid her farewell, pleased to be on our way but also a little anxious for her. Already short of breath, her plan to cross the mountains seems ill-fated. She believes in divine intervention though, so perhaps, miraculously, she’ll arrive at walk’s end before we do.

A pine marten, a furry blur, runs across the path. The rapid-fire percussion of a woodpecker stops Michael in his tracks. He was walking along thinking about his mother’s last days when he heard the bird’s distinctive drumming. Mary (his mother) loved all birds and had a particular affection for woodpeckers after seeing them in a Swedish forest. The psychiatrist Carl Jung believed that woodpeckers symbolise a desire to return to one’s origins. “Suddenly from the boughs above him sang the Mama, the woodpecker.”

A rainy evening in Arthez-de-Béarn. The proprietor of the only open bar is offhand but we have no choice other than to tolerate his brusqueness and the loud, thumping playlist of 60’s rock on high rotation. The next morning, the warmth and deliciousness of the boulangerie Broussé cheer us and, despite the rain, we walk out of town in good spirits.

Chestnut and oak forests. The country growing wilder. The mountains now a substantive presence in the landscape. A visit to the 13th-century church of St James the Great, all that remains of a Benedictine monastery. Founded by Gaston IV of Béarn in 1128, attacked by the Huguenots in 1569, restored after 1630 and then sold off at the time of the French Revolution. All carried out in the name of God, or to revenge the authority of God.

Lunch in the sun at a biodynamic cafe. A perfect omelette. A delicious prune tart. A coffee because there’s still too many kilometres to walk to try the organic wines on offer. Back on the trail, the fragrance of wild spearmint spikes the warm air. We encounter pilgrims succumbing to the languidness of the afternoon and lazing in the long grass by the side of the track. Soaking up the warmth and the light before the dark season descends. We speak to an Irish couple and are mesmerised by their lilting, meandering way of weaving a story from what they’ve seen and heard on the Way.

We walk into Navarrenx, the first town in France to be fortified with Italian-style ramparts in the 16th century and home to the church of Saint-Germain, consecrated as a catholic church in 1562, almost immediately converted into a Protestant temple by Jeanne d’Albret and remaining so until 1620 when it was re-converted to a catholic church.

We envisage a social evening catching up with people over an aperitif in the town plaza. However, our gîte has double-booked the room we thought of as ours. There’s not another bed free in town so, as graciously as we can, we accept the offer of a room in what turns out to be a serene homestay a couple of kilometres away. We happen upon Stéphane and Laurence and learn that their progress is being slowed by Stéphane’s blisters. As we’re unlikely to see them again before they finish their journey in Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port, we wish them a good walk and keep alive the possibility of dinner together in Paris in a few weeks time.

An owl calling. A farewell hug from the most delightful of hosts. Then we are on our way, walking deep into the still-dark forest. The trees here are already bare. The architecture is typically Basque. Solid 3-storey white houses and barns, ornately-carved overhanging balconies, dark red shutters. Corn drying in wire cages. We take the high-level route and although it is cloudy and the views indistinct, it is exhilarating to be on top of the world and breathing its rarefied air.

Fighter jets troubling the sky. An unsettling omen. A message from home that things are not good with Shaun, the 30-year son of Michael’s cousin. On his way to a conference in Spain a couple of weeks ago, he stopped in Cambridge to meet with colleagues and, feeling unwell, was admitted to hospital and diagnosed with a brain tumour. He was hoping to return to Australia for treatment but we hear he’s just undergone emergency surgery and needs immediate and intensive chemotherapy. Awarded a PhD earlier in the year and recently married, Shaun and his wife Melissa should have the best years of their life ahead of them. Now their future is in the hands of modern medicine and a miracle or two.

We walk with brooding hearts all through the long afternoon. Past farms, wayside stone crosses and romanesque churches to the small village of Ostabat-Asme. In the Middle Ages, it was an important gathering point for pilgrims coming along the different Camino routes through France and could accommodate up to 5,000 pilgrims. This evening, all we find is an unprepossessing gîte and a restaurant that isn’t taking bookings. But we manage to secure a beer and some food and in the gathering darkness sit outside the gîte with four French women, picnicking and talking about life’s great joys and sorrows. One of the women, Lucette, is walking to Santiago in honour of her father. He always wanted to walk the Camino but died before he could. Lucette asks if she may carry a prayer and light a candle for Shaun each time she lights one for her father. A stranger to us until now, we are deeply moved by her compassion. It is in the truest spirit of the Camino.

Cowbells, wild mint and damp earth. The Pyrenees beautiful at first light. Mist shrouding the valley. A scramble for breakfast at a small bar then we’re on our way. Road signs in Basque, the richly inflected Basque language being spoken around us. It’s a language unrelated to any of the Romance languages and its origins are still debated.

Green forests. A rain of golden leaves. Lush rolling hills and sharp, barren ridgelines. As most of the French pilgrim routes still converge just before Ostabat-Asme, this morning there’s a procession of people we haven’t seen before on the road to Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port, including a recently retired Australian who started out from Cluny two months ago.

Morning tea at an organic farm where you ‘pay what you appreciate’. Pilgrims milling about, reluctant to break the spell of the Way by making haste to Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port. From here, people who have walked as one will go their separate ways. Many will return home, some will take the northern coastal route and others will join the throngs crossing the Pyrenees to walk the Camino Frances. Our plan was to continue on the Way for another 800 kilometres, following the Camino del Norte and the Primitivo to Santiago de Compostela. However, over the course of the last two unsettled days, we have walked our way to clarity and resolved to return to London to see if there is anything we can do to support Shaun’s family.

Through the Porte Saint-Jacques and into Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port; ancient pilgrim town and modern-day tourist hot spot. The pilgrims are now part of the attraction, along with the ramparts, cobbled streets, Roman bridge over the River Nive and 14th-century Church of Our Lady at the End of the Bridge.

We overhear many anxious conversations amongst those pilgrims setting off on the Camino for the first time. Although they are yet to know this, they will care less about the brand of their gear and the smartness of their digital applications once they find the rhythm of their days and settle into a calmer, simpler way of being.

We sit and watch a pelote game. The sport of Basques flinging a ball against a wall absorbs us for hours. Afterwards, we savour a last Camino dinner on a terrace overlooking the town, the sky darkening, the evening still balmy.

Even though our spirits are subdued, our bodies are fit from the 750 kilometres we’ve walked on the Way of St James. We give thanks for the journey and light candles for Shaun and for our mothers, one of whom died a year ago today and one a decade ago.

The next morning we leave Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port by train, travelling through the Nive River Valley. People out harvesting grapes. A light rain falling and the sky solemn. An elegy for what is lost and a hymn of hope for the future.

See also: Part 1, Le Puy-en-Velay to Conques and Part 2, from Conques to Montréal-Du-Gers.

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