Thursday: Aire sur l'Adour to Sauvalade

I had the luxury of a room all to myself in the Maison des Pelerins, and only a short walk from the bathroom! From the outside MdP looked like a rather bizarre shop, its plate glass windows full of photos of smiling faces from around the world. The door opened onto a large room with posters, a piano, shelves of crockery, and some large tables, behind which sat Jean Michel, the proprietor. It was really a lovely place to stay, and after the usual coffee, bread and jam breakfast, I pushed my bike out in to the street as the sun was rising at the end of the road.

Today's ride was hilly and hard work, but it avoided the major roads and the French lorry drivers who had seemed so determined to kill me the night before. I was soon passing through the beautiful villages of Pimbo and Morlanne and visiting their churches. In Pimbo they obviously celebrated mass in the sacristy and behind the altar a door opened out onto a fantastic view, the countryside that I had just cycled through.

Yesterday had been a long 90+km day, so today I booked a Gite d'Etape adjoining an old abbey church in Sauvelade which meant a shorter 75km ride. In fact I reached my target by 3pm and wondered if I shouldn't be pushing on further so as to leave myself a shorter distance to the train. But I had made the booking and it was nice to think that I had finished for the day.

I showered, washed my cycling gear, and had a beer in the sun. An elderly pilgrim appeared who asked me in faltering French, if this was the Gite. For half a sentence I began an answer in French before coming to my senses and saying, "Are you English?" and continuing in English. Unfortunately my half sentence had convinced Hugh, who was to be my roommate, that I was French, and, like Charles Ryder's father (brilliantly played by John Geilgud) he could not be disabused of this misconception.

Sauvelade was a Benedictine and then a Cistercian church, visited by Edward I. It is plain in style, but a beautiful and prayerful space.

Wednesday: Cathedrals and my Duel with the French lorry driver

I now have a train to catch: the 17:03 from St Jean to Hendaye on Friday so I better put a spurt on. First stop today is Condom. I pass the sign by which thousands of Brits must have had their photo taken in the hope of an appearance on That's Life or some similar TV program, and press on to the town's other notable landmark, its Gothic cathedral.

I'm now in Armagnac country which means passing some pretty swanky estates. Though I am conscious of making good progress, its important, too, that I don't zoom past places without taking a look. So I make a point of stopping at the 13th c fortified village of Lasseringle, the bastide town of Montreal, and the cathedral in Eauze.

From this point JH directs his disciples to the D931: "This excellent quiet road has none of the harsh hills encountered in previous days and the surface is almost perfect for cycling." I thought the last 40km today would be easy. Things have changed. This was not a quiet road. Lorry after lorry thundered past leaving terrifyingly little space at the side of this narrow major road. These were enormous vehicles, many with trailers to match, sometimes passing four or five at a time, and swerving into the side of the road, so that their wheels brushed the grass, after they'd passed me, as if to suggest that they had actually generously afforded me half a yard.

I stopped to search for alternatives, but there was none. There was nothing to be done but to mutter a few prayers, occasionally a few curses, to hold my nerve, and to trust that they wouldn't actually want to hit me. Occasionally one would sound it's horn which I took to mean, "Get off the road!" I did once cut my losses and plough into the thick, long grasses at the side of the road.

I arrived in Aire sur L'Adour, my shoulder blades fused together with tension. I was booked in to a charming Maison des Pelerins, but arriving at 6pm I just had time to ditch my bike and head over to the cathedral for mass. One of the three pilgrims there was also staying in the MdP and as a fellow pilgrim had shared his tin of lentils and sausages with me the previous night (seeing I was about to cook the same thing) I shared my tin with Jean-Luc tonight.

What fruit did I cook?

An addition to the last blog.
One of the lovely things about travelling at this time of year is the fruitfulness of the land. Figs, apples, pears, melons, plums, grapes, peaches and pears are all being harvested, or just fill the trees that overhang the road. From one such tree I took what I at first thought were cooking apples, they were green and large, but in shape they were more pear like. When I got them out in the hostel in Moissac the consensus was they were neither that they were a fruit which had to be cooked or stewed. This was my plan anyway and they were great. My question is, were they quinces? Answers please.

Tuesday:

It was another cool morning, but the roads relatively easy as I set out. All was going smoothly until something went ping behind me, my back wheel skidded, and struggling to keep upright and free my feet, I landed in a heap by the side of the road. Somehow my pannier had become come loose and inserted itself between frame and wheel. I set about making roadside repairs: bike first, self second (I'd sustained a few scratches to my leg). Gingerly I crept the remaining few kilometers into Moissac.

Moissac is famed for the abbey church of St Pierre and its 12th/13th century carvings. So I spent some time in the church and its cloister. Sadly, some of the sculpture was destroyed in the revolution, but it was a welcome break to be a museum going tourist for an hour. The sculpture in the door of Jeremiah is probably the stand out piece.

Since JH had written a canal side velo route has been created. Moreover this is along the canal lateral de Garonne. This signified that I was crossing another of my previous cycling adventures! (A canal building project begun by Louis XIV connected the Atlantic to the Mediterranean with the Garonne and the Canal de Midi via Toulouse.)

Stopped for lunch at Auvillar and then on to the lovely medieval village of St Antoine (Egypt not Padua, this was an Antonnine church). And finally, and with tired legs, into Lectoure.

My panic over accommodation on Monday made me cautious so today I had booked through Tourist Info (at last I've found a use for them). However, this meant I couldn't stay in the wonderful parish house (communal meal, prayer and donation only). The place I was in was lovely, but I would have liked to have been in a pilgrim hostel run by church people. Having said that my Gite had a loquacious canon from Winchester who (confessing himself to be spoilt at home) lamented the musical and liturgical standards in French churches. Although there are certainly problems facing the French Church I have greatly enjoyed all the Sunday masses I have attended.

Monday: Marcilhac to Lauzarte

(Firstly apologies, I haven't had wifi to update for a while, and though I had been keeping a running log on my phone it has somehow been wiped so I will have to give an abbreviated version of the week.)

The proprietress presided over breakfast: coffee, old bread as it was Monday and four small pots on a turntable of the sort that comes with poppadoms in an Indian restaurant. We were asked to guess the flavours. One looked like honey but turned out to be syrup. The rest were all variations of courgette jam, the only thing to have grown in her garden. There were also courgette jam turnovers. My Swiss friends were less than impressed.

I enjoyed the company of this family and was sorry to cycle away. The weather was cool and gusty. I made my way up the Cele gorge back to the river Lot, and then on to Cahors. Cahors was a bit of a disappointment. The cathedral was a mess of different styles of which 19th neo-gothic predominated. The weather was the most changeable yet: 15minutes of hot sunshine alternating with a squally shower and a sudden drop in temperature. This made me decide against prolonging my stay an instead I decided to press on to Lauzerte, a beautiful hilltop town with a classic bastide arcaded town square.

I saw in the church that there was mass in the presbytery at 6pm. I needed all of the 10 minutes available to find the presbytery on the other side of town. I sat with three others and waited. At 6:15 the priest appeared. He was partially sighted, and now began to fill the most awkward cruets imaginable from a selection of plastic bottles lined up on a shelf behind the altar. As he did so he fired out questions to the three of us who were pilgrims: where have you come from today? I was tired and couldn't remember; where are you staying tonight? I had only just arrived and had not yet found a place, which intelligence made my fellow pilgrims palpably sick with concern. The priest was now finding his way into an alb, continuing a now muffled interrogation and oblivious to my incapacity to fully understand him.

Mass over, I found that the Gite d'Etape was full, as was one other. Finally the batman who deputized for the Tourist Info out of hours found that I could have an appartment on the square for €18! I accepted, fried up some onions to have with my leftover baguette and, exhausted, crashed to sleep before it was 9pm.

In the morning I bought bread from this charming boulangerie, where the baker gave me helpful directions, and cycled off to Moissac.

Short day to Conques & the little yellow idol

Celebrated mass this morning at 7am for pilgrims and the little community. The gospel was the parable of the sower and I felt immense gratitude for people like Leonard and Elizabeth with noble and generous hearts, rich soil for the seed of God's word.

JH put two options for today: route A which followed closely the walking pilgrim route but is difficult to follow even with good maps and that involves a climb or two; or route B the flat easy route (10km longer) which goes up the Lot gorge and then branches off onto the Dourdou down to Conques. Well y legs were tired so I chose the est option, route B.

Being Saturday morning the road was surprisingly quiet, and the gorge remarkably beautiful. I cycled through the interlocking spurs of craggy rocks and forest, with wisps of mist riding from the valley floor.

As with the Massif Central, my poor iPhone camera can't capture how breathtaking, how impressive, and how beautiful it all is. At times I feel I could stop at every bend. It's also true, of course, that unlike JH I take my photos whenever the sun is out and the sky is blue, and with careful framing, edit out the pylons or the unsightly building. Below you will find the results.

The road being so empty and quiet, the scenery so evocative, this morning was a morning for reflection. And just as my iPhone camera cannot and should not capture everything, so these jottings cannot and should not relay all. Suffice to say, that if there weren't mornings like today the chemin would not be doing its job.

I reached Conques by midday, and had intended to press on ahead of JH in order to be in St Jean to see not only my cousin Helen and her family, but my cousin Catherine, too. That is still the plan but a multitude of voices have urged me to stop at Conques tonight, fellow guests and my host from last night, JH and the Rough Guide, both of whom insist that the town and abbey are best seen in the quiet of the evening light, the Rough Guide describes it as "one of the great villages of southwest France".

So I will stay (if they'll have me) once more with the Premonstratencians. After a hard week of long, strenuous days' rides, I take the rest of the day off.

....

Enjoyed a restful afternoon off to enjoy a village I'm unlikely to see again as it is desperately inaccessible. Last Judgement Tympanum is the artistic highlight, the figure of Christ, not dissimilar from Vezelay. The interior of the abbey is tall, narrow and Romanesque.

The other great treasure here is the reliquaries in the treasury and in particular that of Ste Foy. Ste Foy was a martyr of the persecution of Diocletian. Her relics were stolen from Agen and brought here in the time of Charlemagne, in what one of the resident priests called a "furtive translation". Her reliquary is the kind of thing that Indiana Jones might have uncovered. A representation of the saint with large hands, feet and head, all in gold and covered in jewels sits enthroned and spotlighted in a small dark apse at the far end of the treasury. I couldn't help but think of a poem that Tony Philpot and Mark Sultana once performed at the English College about old Carew, his beloved and the little yellow idol to the north of Katmandu. For all the uncomplimentary things that ate said about it in the guide books, and for sure it represents a part of Christian spirituality from which most of us would now feel quite distant, it is beautiful and an extraordinary piece of art. I found it fascinating. Well you can see for yourselves.

A vigil mass was said by the prior for a few of us, followed by an evening meal, complin (during which there was a blessing of pilgrims), the salve sung under a primitive annunciation scene that was beautiful in the warm light and a concert. People gave all sorts of excuses for the concert afterwards (the director/ organist couldn't hear the singers etc) perhaps the best that can be said is that they got all the words right ... to the humming chorus. However, many were there because at 9:30 the upper level of the abbey was open and for €5 one could walk around the tribune and see the capitals close up.

Highs & Lows via Eden (Conques to Marcilhac-sur-Cele)

When I made the descent from the Massif Central, the temperature rose by almost 10 degrees, back into the mid 20s. Although the mornings are still cool, this promised to be another very hot day, and so it proved.

The dormitory rose as one at 6:45 and descended for breakfast. Goodbyes were exchanged, credentials stamped, and I was out wheeling my bike through Conques cobbled streets. Steeply down to an old, narrow bridge and then up on a road that hairpinned its way up the wooded slope giving periodic glimpses back to Conques that looked for all the world like a town from a child's story book.

JH had given a choice again, the climb could be avoided but i felt ready for it again, and was glad id taken it on. Because as well as the views back to Conques, once on the top there were incredible panoramas. Back East was the MC behind me and to north and south and dead ahead I could see line after line of distant mountains each one a paler shade of purple. The road took me along a ridge do that I had these fantastic views for some time. It's strange how vulnerable one feels, traveling at speed, buffeted by the wind with these vast expanses to each side, as if I might fall off into the far distance.

Eventually the road descended back down to the Lot at Decazeville. Then up and over to the next valley, the Cele, a tributary to the Lot. The second climb was unwelcome but a good steer from JH was the little church of st Felix, with its 11th c tympanum. This was one of the most delightful things I've seen so far (see images). It depicts Adam and Eve, both clutching fig leaves to themselves, and the serpent wound around the tree of life, giving the fruit to Eve.

The rest of the day was a long hot slog, but it did include the beautiful village of Espagnac with its ruined abbey. I should have stopped here but instead I pressed on to Marcilhac-sur-Cele. Here the Gite d'Eape that JH recommended in the abbey grounds was shut. There was one other. It wasn't the greatest, it offered no supper, there were no shops and for once I had no food, but I was lucky to fall in with Swiss family Florian and Marianne were being joined on the road by Florian's parents, Karl and Helen. They shared their meal and I shared the chocolate and coffee that I had. And we also shared good company.

The Great Descent

There was nervous talk of rain at dinner last night, but this morning the sky was fair with only a little mist lying in the valleys. It was cold, and the road quiet, but beautiful when the sun shone. I stopped at Aumont-Aubrac for morning prayer, provisions and called in at the Tourist Office because I'd forgotten to get my passport stamped at St Alban's. The greatest excitement of the morning was being urged on by a farmer to cycle with his cattle along the lane. I was managing quite well to get past them, but one cow kept taking fright and alarming the others into a run. I could blood on the road, and Pamplona style chaos. The alarmist cow had raised its tail to vertical like a flagpole in an act of unwarranted aggression, so I kept my distance. Eventually we came to the farmer who was waiting to turn the cattle into a field and all was well.

The wind got up about 9:30 and there was clearly weather about, but, dark clouds cleared and it has been bright. As I cycled towards Nasbinals (my designated lunch stop) I had, for the first time the impression of the Massif Central as a plateau. It is vast and high, with colours I associate with the Northumberland coast: long pale grasses, weathered fence posts and lichen covered rocks. The south westerly wind is brutal when the road turns south but wonderful when it heads west. For some miles I sailed along with the wind at my back, in a beautiful landscape with huge vista. I'm at 1250m. "Made it, Ma! I'm on top of the world!" as Jimmy Cagney once said.

If the previous miles had strained my legs, this descent strained my fingers that pulled had on the brakes, and my shoulders where I felt the tension of the gradient and the wind.

Finally I arrive at St Come which has a twisted spire like Chichester(?). It's interesting how the architecture changes. Around Le Puy and across most of the MC most of the churches have tiered belfry, showing you the bells and ringing them lustily. Here, on the western side of the MC the buildings generally have more turrets and the churches, spires.

Two good steers from JH. 1) he recommends the church of St Pierre, Bessuejouls as "one of the most beautiful churches on the whole pilgrimage". It took a little time but it is lovely and has amazing 9th c carved friezes that I imagine Rosemary Cramp enjoying. 2) the hospitality St Jacques, which is run by Leonard and Elisabeth and a lay community which is wonderfully welcoming and is donation only. I went to the village church to find mass being celebrated and sung by a priest with aspirant priestly vocations for the diocese of Versailles. It was beautiful singing and really very moving. And now for dinner.

JH warned of a long, exposed climb to Aubrac. In fact it wasn't too bad. I passed a milestone which gave the altitude as 1340m. And then, long before I expected it, I passed a ski station and swept down towards Aubrac village, looking like another volcanic outcrop, virtually windowless, and austere.

JH's ride profile suggests at this point that one cycles off a cliff losing 1000m of height and descending into the Lot valley. Time to change into a dry shirt, warm jacket and weatherproof gloves!

Introducing a flawed hero

Before I go any further I need to introduce you to John Higginson (henceforth JH). Who he? Well he's a hero. I first came across him when cycling the Danube and using his guide. Here has two other guides published by Cicerone, The Way of St Martin which follows the Loire from source to Tours and The Way of St James which is a cycle guide from Le Puy to Santiago. He is a retired primary head from Cheshire, and he has researched and produced theses guides in his retirement. He is a flawed hero. His photography is dire. He always seems to be cycling in drizzle necessitating the wearing of all waterproofs. But perhaps this hints at another possible flaw: though JH counsels the wisdom of travelling light, "only take what you use everyday" he takes far more than I do. He takes, for example a "dog dazer", presumably set to stun. I may regret the lack of such a device, like a hapless extra beamed down from the Starship Enteprise, but I travel lighter. JH is a cautious type. He must also be a Christian and probably a Catholic, who smuggles a little bit of faith in to these works for a secular walking/ cycling guidebook company. In his Kit list of things he uses every day he includes, rather charmingly, "Prayer book". In short, I want you to love JH as I do, but proceed with caution because JH is an overly cautious man.

Now you have this character sketch you can begin to appreciate my calculations. On the one hand I'm pretty pleased to have made Decize to Le Puy in three days, tackling some shot (for me) climbs. Surely the worst is over. In his preface JH states, "the average distance travelled each day isis about 50km- easily within the compass of the moderately fit". But then there are the other phrases: "no amount of cycling in England can prepare one for the challenge of this route," (and JH and his wife practiced with gradually longer routes and heavier loads); "this is a mountainous jouney ... do not expect this ride to be easy"; the Massif Central is described as "a high, windswept volcanic plateau incised by deep gorges"; and the first day from Le Puy is a "baptism of fire". Is the worst over, or is the pain just about to begin?

7am mass and blessing of the pilgrims in the cathedral celebrated by a very engaging priest. As I and about forty others gathered around the statue of St Jacques we were asked to give our name, nationality and destination (many will walk just a portion of the way). We sang the Salve, had our passports stamped and exited into the thick fog that filled the valley in which Le Puy lies.

Then things gathered, and things dispersed (two packages off in the post to lighten the load) and to the Place du Plot and down the Rue de St Jacques. The guide books say that there are three passes into Le Puy each over 1000 metres. But I cycled into Le Puy without too much trouble so how bad can it be? I soon found out. The road out is like Redhills only longer and steeper. Yes I had managed some tough climbs in the last three days, but I had become conscious of twinges and aches in my left quads, and hamstring and at the top of my calves. I think that's most of the muscles in my legs. And so for the first time I got off and pushed. Discretion played the better part than valour as Christopher Martin Jenkins might say, as indeed he would often say if he ever had the torment of commentating on my batting! Anyway, I walked clear of the fog and into a bright, if cold, sunshine.

JH said follow the Tarmac, but it forked and a "Chemin de St Jacques" sign pointed on way so I followed. Unfortunately I followed what turned out to be the walking route, and it was quickly a rocky uphill path impossible for my bike. Fortunately it quickly rejoined the road I was meant to be on. This warned of a strange irony. I will have to be wary of "Chemin de St Jacques" signs. They are siren voices tempting me, but if followed the will dash my bike's spokes on the cruel rocks of an impassible path.

Essentially today's route made a climb out of Le Puy of about 600m, then plunged down all of those 600m into the gorge of the river Allier before climbing 600m again. Then finally a long climb of 200m to the highest village of St Roch before a downhill all the way to St Alban where I have a fire with dinner and breakfast.

JH warns on the spectacular descent to Allier to stop to allow the wheel rims to cool. I was conscious of another problem. Despite the sunshine (which meant that the views were stunning) the temperature was only 12c, and my hands, and the fingers wrapped around the brakes, were quickly numb with cold. The rest of me was pretty chilled (and I don't mean relaxed) too!

The climbs today were hard, but the Massif Central was stunningly beautiful. I was tired when I'd reached Saugues at 2:30, but I decided to press on the St Alban's which has a beautiful church and where I've had very good company with the evening meal. And so to bed!

Sweats & Shivers

A day or two ago I met a couple cycling "from the Atlantic to our home in Grenoble". Like a number of others they had a bike trailer on which they carried their tent and camping equipment. (I pride myself on being one of the lightest of travellers, and even when camping I only carry what will fit on my back pannier rack.) However, this couple were off to book into a hotel, "It was 2c this morning," they complained. Although the afternoon sun is invariably warm 25+c, and has given me distinctive cyclist's tan-line (from my knuckle to my figure-tips I'm nut brown, but the rest of my hands are white because of the cycling gloves which certainly saved me from more serious injury when I fell nr Antwerp), the mornings have an autumn coolness. I usually start the day with all layers, including waterproofs, on and gradually strip down over the morning.

This worked well until I hit the hills. I remember being fascinated by Tour de France cyclists being handed newspapers on reaching a summit. They put the papers over their chests as they hurtled down hill. The reason is that you work up quite a sweat on the climbs, but as the cool air whistles through your sweat-dampened clothes on the way down it is extremely chilling. I seem to have developed a sniffle from my descent last night and this morning's climbs and downhills have had the same effect.

Fortunately it's not yet climbs all the way. The Upper Loire valley narrows (usually making climbs unavoidable as the road winds round mountains) and then opens out again, giving plenty of flat terrain for cycling. This morning has been a narrow valley phase and I've climbed to hear the cow bells of the upland cattle, and to see three hefty boar dart across the road and scamper on up the hillside disappearing into the forest. I think the climbs are over now as I've descended to Retournac. The market was coming to an end and the man on the rotisserie stall, apologizing that he no chicken left, served me instead the most enormous helping of paella, "pressed down and brimming over". Happy days!

The hills didn't abate as much as I had hoped, but enough for me to make good progress. The scenery was superb. I reached Le Puy en Velay just after 3pm. It took some time to find the pilgrim hostel I was staying at, and then I could only drop off my bags. Maison de St Francois is directly behind the cathedral, so I began there. It is a incredible structure with primitive frescoes, a Byzantine-feel interior with hanging lamps, and because the stairs to the front door begin to descend from the middle of the nave, the facade is simply towering. I also managed to take in the St Michel chapel high on a pinnacle of volcanic rock. It is said to be 260 steps to the top, but it wasn't honestly too bad. Visually the building makes a stunning spectacle. Inside it is surprisingly cramped and irregular. Sadly Notre Dame de France, cast from 200+ guns captured at Sebastopol, and which towers above the town, is currently under scaffold. There's something here of beating swords into plough shares, but I think they should be your own weapons, not those you've captured.

Dinner at Maison de St Francois happily included Le Puy lentils. I was at table with Frederic and a group of four. One of these asked a Frederic what his reason for doing the camino was. He responded that he was thinking about changing job, he was wanting to think about this and deepen his faith. It was clear the group of four were uncomfortable with the mention of faith though they professed themselves open to it. It is interesting to see who one's fellow travellers are.

At last, also, the feat of having cycled from Newcastle/ Amsterdam gains appreciation. But I was aware how what we have on the road behind us -the journey from wherever, a background of faith- can be source of pride for ourselves and a stumbling block on the road to fellow travellers, for whom faith is not a given part of the camino but for whom it might become a part of the way. This was clear again at the pilgrim mass: we like to show we know what to do, when to stand and what to say, but how excluding this could be to those who are standing tentatively on the edge.

I headed off to the Friends of St James reception only to find that they had abandoned their post 10mins before time. And so retired early for the night.

Roanne to St Etienne

I found my way out of Roanne and along the eastern side of the Loire. The road then turned over a bridge and then climbed. The D56 was like this. You would go past a hill top village thinking to yourself, "Thank heavens I don't have to climb up there!" only to find the road doubling back and making the said ascent. For all that the scenery was spectacular. I was really in the hills now, up and at times away from the valley and looking across hills and valleys to distant purple hills both to right and left of me. I'm reading Homage to Catalonia in preparation for the Spanish leg of the journey, and as Orwell describes the trenches separated by valleys that kept the combatants too far apart to trouble each other, so I could imagine this landscape though it is considerably more lush. There was one very spectacular descent followed by a cruel, steep and very long climb. I thought of it as a long and painful form of bucking broncho, a test of how long I could stay in the saddle. I kept going and made it to the top. In fact, that was by far the worst of the climbs.

At St Jodard I passed a small convent and stopped to call, but no one was about, so I said morning prayer in their garden. Once I got a little beyond to Pinay, I realized, looking back from the next spur that I had missed a very substantial monastery (how different and obviously male is monastery from convent architecture!).

From here the road rejoined the Loire and the way leveled out, but I was concerned to have got only a little beyond Feurs, and only halfway but lunch. Still, my legs were tired with the climbing, and I knew the hostel I was headed for was remote, so I decided to stop in a roadside canteen and have the plat de jour.

In fact the next stretch was flat as the valley widened out. I made for St Rombart which has an extraordinary Romanesque church with a tower at both ends. I also called in at the Tourist Information. Allow me a little rant about Tourist Information. These people never seem to want to help you! And this despite the fact that they don't seem to have anything else to do. They only want to give you leaflets and direct you to expensive attractions/ restaurants/ hotels. Yesterday I was told there was no green cycle way and then I discovered it for myself half a mile away. Today, I was asking much the same thing: I had 20km to cover and only one road, the Chambles road seemed possible. Yes, I was told, via Chambles would be my only way. Is it hilly, I asked, oh no, I was told, but watch out for the traffic. Well it was a narrow winding road, and indeed there were even signs directing motorists to leave 1.5m when passing cyclists, but not hilly? St Rombart was on the Loire, Chambles was 630m up. It was 10km of climb! And then 10km of white knuckle descent. I got to my hostel just as the rain began to come heavy. Home and dry and safe.

Turned away from the seven springs

These next three days are the days about which I have been most anxious and for which I am least prepared. The distance by road (which means by car) from Decize to Le Puy is 280km. I have given myself three days for this journey. With Aude and Francois I had booked a night in a convent in Paray-le-Monial, a hostel near St Etienne, and another convent in Le Puy. The basic route is to follow the Loire to its source.

Goodbyes were made in turn to Jacques as he went to the nanny, Aude as she went to work, and Francois who cycled with me into Decize, he on his way to work. The road beyond Decize was straight and flat, essentially following the Canal lateral de Loire.

I found myself at a Trappist Abbey, Sept Fons. I entered reception and found a kindly old monk dusting books and other abbey wares in the shop. I explained in my best French that I was an English priest on the Chemin de St Jacques. Could he stamp my pilgrims passport and could I see the Church. I was wrong, he wasn't kindly. He took my passport but said I couldn't come in like that. Apologising for my bad French I explained I was not sure that I had understood. "Like that, without trousers!" I had always prided myself on my smart and decent cycling apparel, but not decent enough. I had a stamp but I had not really made a visit.

From here (Diou) I found a Voie Verte to Digoin all along the canal and arrived in Digoin by 12:30. I started to revise my plan. Paray was just 20km more, but east. The Loire went due south. Tomorrow was going to be a mammoth day. I decided to turn south and make what headway I could and canceling the convent in Paray. I did manage to take in the Romanesque abbey of Anzy le Duc.
Once in Auvergne I found two green ways, the first along an old railway and the second along a canal, both at moments when I thought I had no choice but a busy lorry laden road. I made it to Roanne where I got a room in the budget ibis.

Auxerre south along the Canal du Nivernais

Aude had kindly arranged for me to stay with the parents of her parish priest in a vilage called Rix a few kilometres south of Clamecy. (I was thinking of trying to ride to Decize all in one day.) This meant I had considerably more time. As it was raining heavily in the morning, I went to Mass in the cathedral and had a leisurely breakfast. By the time I set off, the sun was up and the canal looked fantastic. This was the easiest and most enjoyable day. I had time to explore villages as I passed. For anyone who is ever thinking about a cycling holiday, this wold be the perfect gentle introduction: a smooth level path through lovely country. It is a brilliant route. 

Pere Ivan's parents cooked a lovely supper for me, and although they had no English we managed to communicate for the evening in my pigeon French.

The next day there was a heavy mist, but this, too, made the canal look beautiful. All the lock gates were strung with cobwebs frosted with dew. And as the mist lifted and was burnt off by the sun, more of the idyllic countryside became visible. I met an English couple in their 60s and we stood and compared notes, and called all gentlemen at home abed, accursed that they were not here on the feast of the Holy Cross.

Finally I rolled in to the garden of Aude and Francois and their 4 mth old baby Jacques for a weekend of good food, good wine, a soft bed, and plenty of good English conversation and friendship. It has been a ovely rest, and a chance to catch up with this blog. 

(I will now be able to blog from my phone so posts should become more regular.)

Troyes to Auxerre: Brueghel-esque barns, English Archbishops and pork tripe sausages

Getting towards Burgundy the terraint gets more varied, but the cycling felt easier. Perhaps my legs are getting stronger.There is less empty farm land and more villages. Although Chalons and Troyes have lots of timber-framed houses, it is the timber framed barns that, to me, seem most attractive. In various states of disrepair, panels of plaster missing, their tiled roofs heavy with green moss, and in places partially caved-in, they are Brueghel-esque (see Adoration of the Magi) and in what I would call a state of pleasing decay- Andrew Davis would love it, Gil Bolton, less so!

I made a diversion from my route to visit Pontigny. This early Cistercian Abbey, and one of the best examples of Cistercian architecture, played host to three prominent English churchmen seeking sanctuary from tyrannical rule back home. All three were archbishops of Canterbury, all three were very remarkable, and two were saintly. Thomas Becket took refuge from Henry II in 1164. Stephen Langton, who led the barons in their dispute with King John and masterminded the Magna Carta, and who, in his spare time divided the Bible into chapters (the verse came later in the 16th c) was here from 1207-1213 between being consecrated by Pope Innocent III in Viterbo, and Kin John acquiescing to his appointment. Lastly, Edmund Rich reitred here. Although he died south of Paris his body was returned to Pontigny and soon miracles were recorded. His relics are sited in the reliquary above the high altar in the church. One of my three new churches is St Edmund's in Backworth. I don't know to which Edmund it is dedicated, but I may have just visited, by chance, the relics of one of my new patrons.

The point of Cistercian archtecture is its clean white lines, without ornament or distraction. It is interesting that the view of Pontigny of which there are most postcards is that of the outside taken from behind and showing the curved tiled roofs of the apse and its buttresses.

The last time I cycled in to Auxerre I was with my brother's family and the city slowly unfolded as we came up the Canal du Nvernais. This time I crested a hill, and came out of a wood and suddenly the whole city was visible all at once. It was a little like cycling down Bent House Lane towards Old Durham with the cathedral in front of you. I could see St Etienne, the cathedral, and the other fine churches, and the white high rises of the suburbs, all surrounded by corn fields. 

I was lucky enough to find a place in a walkers' hostel (Maison des Randonneurs) and had time to explore the historic churches. Moreover I had an en suite room to myself for all of €17. I went out to celebrate. The first nice restaurant I found had Andouillettes as the Plat du Jour. The waitress seemed concerned: did I realise these were sausages made from pork tripe? I did, and I knew that they were local, and I thought to myself, we eat all sorts of things in sausages, how bad can they be? But these are not like other sausages. Once the outer skin is pierced these sausages fall out into their constituent body parts. It was like a scene with the forensic scientists in an episode of Morse as I picked over the badly dismembered body. I ate it, just. 

Chalons to Troyes

My satnav device had let me down, or rather the route planning site from which I had downloaded my route. Approaching Chalons it directed me onto a Route National which is madness. However, it also enabled me to pick a route for myself along chalk white farm tracks.

Again this morning the satnav directed me to the RN, but again I was able to pick a route along minor roads. Everyone had warned me to expect rain today, however, despite waking to a tremendous thunder storm during the night, it was dry, but considerably cooler than on previous days. The first part of the day was comparatively easy, and Champagne is flat. However, the wind got up at about midday and all route pointed upwards on to large flat open farmlands of harvested fields. Although these were obviously fertile, in their post harvest state the land felt desolate. I always felt that I was on top of an upturned saucer, making my lonely journey on a narrow strip of tarmac, buffetted by the wind. The wind felt and sounded in my ears to be vicious, though to my chqgrin the few trees I passed were not bent double as I felt they ought to be. At least the long grasses had the decency to look thrashed about a bit.

This turned out to be one of the longest and hardest days yet. Eventually I made it to a hostel in Rosaires to the south of Troyes. Troyes itself is a fine town with a historic centre. I had time to go into the centre and visit the cathedral before making my weary way to bed.

Avancon to Chalons

A 70km ride which I managed easily in three 90 min stints taking long breaks in between to lie in the sun and read. Someone told me that this was the hottest day of the year so far. I have fallen into the habit of stopping in village churches, and if they are open, saying morning prayer there. This morning I sheltered from a short shower in the porch of a church. And in the afternoon I stopped again in church grounds to rest.

I was staying tonight with Aude's cousin Thibault and his wife, Beatrice, and their five children who live in a large rambling town house with an extensive rambling garden. The children showed my all the chickens in the back garden, and every fruit tree, and I was to sample fruit from each, which they climbed to bring down to me. 

Chalons isn't in the Rough Guide despite having a UNESCO World Heritage site in the church of Notre Dame. I managed to get to a 6:30pm Mass there, though I admit to sitting through the communion rite, as my legs were feeling a bit wobbly.

En route to Chalons I had passed through what Jane Austin would call a garrison town, a kilometre of barracks on either side of the road, as well as an extensive military zone,a nd various military personnel. This is the heart of military France and Thibault is a military man who commutes to Paris daily. They were gracious hosts, we ate well, and I slept extremely well.

The city parish is now run by three priests of the Community of St Martin. Beatrice was meeting one of them in the morning, so I accompanied her to get my passport stamped. As it turned out all three priests, soutane-clad appeared at the door, and I wondered what they thought of this scruff of an english priest. I got my passport stamped and headed off.

Charleville to Avancon

The hills cycling out of Charleville were brutal. I crossed valley after valley and it hurt. In half an hour I had only managed 15km. I stopped for the picque-nique at what appeared to be the perfect bench, nicely shaded in the well kept lawns to the rear of the village church. But I wasn't there five minutes before I was set upon by two conversationl locals. My pleas that I didn't have good French were to no avail, question after question came, the fact tat I was an English priest just whetting their interest, until I gave up trying to eat and moved on feeling pretty sorry for myself. 

Eventually the hills became fewer and the way levelled. I stopped at Rethel for a leisurely break in front of the Mairie. My next stop was in the tiny hamlet of Avancon about 30km north of Reims. My hosts, Damien and Emilie live on a farm with their three daughters. However, once I had found the farm it was obvious I had called at a bad time. Clemence, their eldest daughter had just fallen and broken her arm and was being taken to hospital by Emilie. I wished there was somewhere else I could go, but Avancon was a one horse, no hotel kind of a place. Damien was incredibly gracious in the circumstances.

Dinant to Charleville-Mezieres

As the crow flies the distance between Dinant and Charleville-Meziers is not so great, but the wooded slopes that rise from the Meusse forbid much deviation from the course of the river. So today's ride was long and hot, but flat and very beautiful. It even included a canal tunnel.

Arriving in Charleville-Mezieres I found my way to my billet for the night. I have to admit to a fair bit of apprehension making my way down a strange street, a block away from the station, to a number on a front door and ringing the bell. The email I had received (again courtesy of Teams) came from Frederic Coquet, and being from just Frederic I had guessed that my host was probably an elderly widower. No answer came. I went and rested on a station bench. When I tried again, there was a scurry of feet and excited voices. I'm at the wrong house I thought. The door was flung back, and in equal surprise at the vision that greeted them, two laughing children recoiled. Their parents stepped in. I was in the right place. But these children were expecting a priest, and were naturally surprised to see me because the miles on the road had taken their toll: shaven-headed, skin peeling from my sunburnt nose, sweaty and exhausted. This was the wonderful Coquet family, my hosts. They were quite excited by my coming. They had prepared a beautiful meal of tarte au fromage and salad and more cheese in various forms. It was a lovely evening.

The Coquets had also prepared a terrific breakfast, and because Mass was at 11am we had time for a walk around Charleville. The Charleville half of Charleville-Mezieres is a new town, but don't think Milton-Keynes or Washington. This is a 17th c. new town, with a beautiful Place Ducale and some fine buildings.

Mass was in the church of St Remi (illustration provided by Matthias Coquet). I was conscious that 11am made this exactly a week to the minute after I had celebrated my last Mass at St Cuthbert's. But this Mass helped to take my mind away from that memory: this was a real celebration liturgy. Pere Vincent, the parish priest, was an effervescent personality who had a remarkable rapport with his congregation who clearly loved him. Afterwards, my Pilgrim's Passport stamped, and laden with Helene's uber generous picque-nique, I rolled off in search of the hamlet of Avancon.