WHEN WALKING

Home to Santiago Day 2

Dieppe to Offranville (10km)

My fear is that, having come into France, I’m now going to be guilty of a whole host of generalisations, but I have over 40 days walking through France to be enlightened. Mind you, I’ve had 50-plus years in England, and that hasn’t worked.

So, I set off early, and with the usual excitement, reach the ferry. It’s rather civilised getting on as a foot passenger, not like the car queuing outside. We have our own waiting room, I can even check in my luggage for free. It is a poor man’s executive lounge.

In the waiting room, three young women are having a competition doing planks in the waiting room. They are getting in the way of everyone, but having a lovely time and making a good show of not caring. They look quite fearless until I start chatting.

And then, eventually, we get on the little bus, the jolly driver sorting out the bags. We’re taken to the front of the ship, but are left to walk into its gaping mouth. It has the feel of a ceremonial sacrifice.

On the boat, I wander the decks and am overwhelmed as always by the vastness of the sea. Even this little one. The decks, familiar, also overwhelm, this time with memories. So I find myself a quiet area, which I’ve not sat in before. There a lovely lady behind me, sticks out her toes beside my seat to keep me company. I focus on writing, and the four hours pass.

I watch the dock worker haul the boat in with giant ropes that send down sheets of sea drops. Walking out from the harbour offices, I see the three young women writing their hitchhiking signs by the side of the road. I wonder if they’ll be more or less successful than a lone middle-aged woman. I wonder about the motivations for stopping.

I walk into Dieppe and find the Church of Saint-Jacques. I never knew it was here, but it’s stunning. The tower resembles the Tower of Saint-Jacques in Paris, the more usual starting point for this particular walk. Inside, there is an interesting and varied array of chapels, and a netting across the chancel, which gives the impression of that whole area of the church being a painting.

However, beautiful as it is, they have no stamp for my pilgrim credentials, although plenty of references to pilgrimage and Saint James. So I make my way back to the Tourist Office. I remember my French and get my first stamp.

Now, the first part of the walk out of Dieppe is my personal pilgrimage. I don’t think it’s the official trail, but I’ve seen a hypermarket and a Decathlon very close to my route, and the draw is irresistible.

I find myself walking out on dual carriageways to the retail park, and already my preconceptions of the French are being confirmed: that every time they open their mouths, they become sophisticated, no matter how they appear, no matter how they dress, no matter what they do. The retail park is an excellent place to fully put this theory to the test, but not a single French speaker fails to transform before my eyes.

Next it is the hypermarket and a few voluntary extra kilometers walking the aisles. I find it harder than Spain to snack healthily. Not that the supermarket isn’t full of healthy food, but I think the concept of a boxed salad is just beyond the comprehension of the French. And probably quite rightly so.

So I leave with a massive bread-type thing covered in goat cheese and honey, and a bag of rocket to healthy it up. And of course, the avocados. One of which I’ll eat and one of which will probably go rotten in my bag.

And then, as I walk through the confectionery aisle, admiring all the beautiful French sweets and chocolates, I see the Haribo foam strawberries, which were the only thing I brought back from my very first visit to Dieppe, as a ten year old on a school trip. I have happy memories of sitting in the front room at home when I got back, with my sister and I, throwing them into each other’s mouths across the room. So I buy these. Not as delicious as I remember, but I throw a good number in nonetheless.

From here, a quick hop to Decathlon, where I replace my bamboo socks. I don’t know why I messed with the formula. My bamboo socks were slipping in my shoes, and I can feel the bottom of my foot starting to burn.

So I swap them for the cheap Decathlon ankle socks and, with a display of annoyance, throw the bamboo socks I’m wearing in the bin. It feels a terrible waste, but emotionally necessary. So I’m back to the footwear I’ve worn for the last 9 years. Never mess with the formula.

From here, it’s an easy walk. I turn onto a quieter path. I pass the Canadian cemetery, where I stop, visit a few graves, read the Roll of Honour, and decide I will have a snack in the small shelter. I think if I were a 19-year-old lying in a corner of France, I’d be happy for people to come and join me for a picnic. But I’m very careful to leave no crumbs.

On leaving the cemetery, I am then ridiculously happy to see my first unexpected sign for the Camino. I didn’t even know I was on the route. From now on, we’re on proper footpaths, local rights of way, paths around the edge of cordoned-off estates, scrambles up through the woods.

To end the day, all my preconceptions are dismissed for my final destination of Offranville. I’d imagined Offranville to be a grubby little place on the edge of Dieppe, purely because I’d booked the municipal campsite. But, of course, that’s not how the French do camping.

I walk past a beautiful mansion house, well-kept gardens, a preserved dovecot, and enter Municipal Camping Le Colombier. I’m late, and I can’t find the reception, so I wander around the campsite until I see a friendly-looking family group and address the grandmother of the family in my best French.

Immediately she asks me, in French, “Are you Dutch?” Before I can process the question – and by the time I’ve processed it, I’ve already given my answer – I’ve said yes. I don’t know why. I think my first instinct was to be agreeable.

So, as she says, “Well, we may as well continue in Dutch then,” I have to say, “No, no, not Dutch, Deutsch.” Again, the words are coming quicker than the thinking. But I correct myself in time this time. “No, even better, English.”

The conversation carries on from there. Her son, the father of a little boy looking on askance, is trying very hard not to laugh. But I’m tired enough not to mind.

The man in charge, she tells me, cycled off half an hour ago on his bicycle, and she doesn’t think he’ll be coming back. So I find myself a beautiful spot, completely unoverlooked and right next to a toilet block.

And because I know it’s France, and all French children are well behaved, I have no fear of rowdiness at bedtime. And if there was, I didn’t hear a bit of it.