WHEN WALKING

Home to Santiago – Day 17

Tours to Sorigny: 27km

In the morning, I attend the blessing in the crypt of the Basilica of Saint Martin. I enjoy the ritual and the timelessness of it all. It gives you space, although I worry I am piggybacking on the faith of others.

I stay for the morning service, led by the nuns. The singing is beautiful, but I am fascinated by the nun in front of me playing minimal accompaniment on a zither (I think). I then start studying the uniform pleats in the backs of their veils, and how the zither nun’s scapular hangs perfectly straight over the back of her seat. Eventually, I start thinking about breakfast.

Breakfast is kept out for all of us that went to the crypt: for me, for Delphine, the self-proclaimed faux pilgrim, and for the couple from Rouen, who I now know are called Amélienne and Roman. Amélienne makes a fruit salad for us all from the fruit on the table, and, importantly, I improve my core vocabulary once more by finding out the French for quince jelly.

I wander at a snail’s pace out of Tours, which is very beautiful, even in the newer quarters. I visit the cathedral, then stroll along a grand boulevard right to the edge of the city. The city is full of public toilets, all of them occupied, but luckily also provides a handy little bar-tabac in which to enjoy today’s second, stronger café before carrying on out of town.

The walk out is almost as pleasant as the walk in, following the riverbank, this time the River Cher. There are occasional cyclists and speed walkers, but is far less busy now. Yesterday I was walking in after work; today I’m walking out in the middle of a working day. It is hot, but it’s not the heat of yesterday. The storm has broken that.

My first stop is, of course, the supermarket, this time a Lidl, which is very exciting. And I eye up the Crivit trekking poles in the middle aisle, the same as the ones I have but less decrepit. But it seems wrong to give up on my faithful little poles until the inevitable day when I forget them somewhere.

For my little lunch, I sit on a bench just outside the pretty suburb village of Saint Avertin. A local, pushing her bike up the little hill, gives me a nod as lunch. This is the main track now, where the path from Orléans has joined the path from Chartres, and scruffy pilgrims picnicking on roadside benches are more normal here.

The rest of the day is mainly mainly along woodland paths, and the flies are behaving themselves. In Veigné I make the discovery that you can put Mr Freeze ice pop lollies in your shoes as coolants. By mid-afternoon I do not care what anyone passing my bench thinks.

I take it easy and it’s nearly seven o’clock by the time I make my way to the village of Sorigny. When I walk into tonight’s Halte Jacquaire, Pierette the lady on duty from the Mairie is already checking in French Fabrice and Swiss Peter in the kitchen. I’m told straight away that I will be the translator. God help us all.

When Pierrette goes, I leave with Fabrice to the supermarket. He has an extraordinary, and sadly unfounded, belief in my command of the French language, and he only occasionally seems confused at my responses.

On our return, Peter’s awake from his nap, and I find my job for the evening is indeed to be the translator. Fabrice asks me questions to pose to Peter. Peter tells me of all his journeys. Out of politeness, I give potted translations for Fabrice, who sits patiently, smiling. I know that look.

As Peter has told us he’ll be up at three in the morning, probably leaving by five, I opt to stay in the dorm room with Fabrice, who won’t be getting up until six. I have big plans for a 7am lie-in and eggs for breakfast and I dream of that box of cornflakes I saw on the kitchen shelf.