WHEN WALKING

London to Santiago – Day 18

Sorigny to Draché: 32km

This morning I wake up just in time to say goodbye to Fabrice. Peter is long gone. I take the opportunity to have a proper breakfast in the kitchen: cereal, rice pudding left by a pilgrim, hard-boiled eggs. God knows what has happened to the two I put in my pack — they weren’t hard enough. Coffee too. Fabrice, wonderful man, has left me a cup full in the coffee maker.

It’s a leisurely start. I’m walking through the sunflowers when I have the great pleasure of seeing two figures approaching me – pilgrims on the return journey. They have completed a grand circuit of France and Spain, and are now on their penultimate leg to Orléans. Next year they will finish their grand tour, walking from Orléans back to their home in the north of  I can tell immediately that they have been travelling for a long time. They don’t speak English to me, but they speak French in the manner of people who have learnt how to make themselves understood.

I can tell immediately that they have been travelling for a long time. They don’t speak English to me, but they speak French in the manner of people who have learnt how to make themselves understood. My confidence in being able to communicate in French is restored. Michel and Jean-Michel. I like the fact that there’s less to remember there. They take photos with me, which gives me the perfect excuse to take a photo too.

It’s quite a pleasant day to be walking. There are shady stretches here and there and a good breeze blowing.

The only village I pass through is Saint-Catherine-de-Fierbois, which I reach for lunch. I learn that this is where Joan of Arc found her sword, and where she wrote to the Dauphin to demand an audience.

As I turn into the village, right beside the church, is the Auberge Jeanne d’Arc, with people sitting outside beneath the parasols. I gingerly join them, not feeling quite as smart as everyone else, and treat myself to a shandy lunch before popping into the church where I find my pilgrim shell for the backpack.

In the afternoon I decide to walk past Sainte-Maure-de-Touraine while the weather is still relatively cool, putting in a few longer stages so that I’ll arrive in Biarritz in time to meet my family. I only stop in Sainte-Maure for a bit of cash, and from then on it’s just me and the clouds and the sunflowers, which is company enough today.

The clouds are uniform and regular, contrasting nicely with the blue sky, never quite seeming to offer any shade. The sunflowers seem to gather in family groups, and I find myself trying to understand how the harvest works. Some are already heavy-headed, hanging down with ripe seeds, while others are still fresh and newly opened. I chat to them and pick a single seed from one sunflower head to plant later.

In one field the sunflowers aren’t doing well. They’re smaller, half dead, unlike all the others I’ve seen. Then I notice that every single one of them has its back to the sun.

I take a slight detour down a country road to see a dolmen. But apart from an information board, all I can see are crops and hedges. On a day where you talk to flowers, the non-appearance of the dolmen is a monumental disappointment. If only I’d realised, the tallest menhir in Indre-et-Loire is just around the corner. What’s more, it’s got a hole through it.

I’m a little too fond of the menhir (I was tempted to keep the transcription error that occurred when I dictated that line) and although I’m running late, I have to spend a good ten minutes looking at it from every angle.

According to the information board, some legends say that the hole was where the heads of human sacrifices were placed before they were cut off. Another story says it marks the graves of Saracen warriors after a battle near Poitiers. Another says that local people would gather grass from around it to take home for good luck. I go with the last one and pocket a blade of grass.

Finally, I arrive at the little farmhouse just outside the village of Draché, where I’m welcomed by Marie, her husband Emmanuel, their extraordinarily well-mannered teenage daughter Camille, four dogs and a cat.

It’s a very orderly place. There’s a system for leaving your rucksack downstairs and transferring your smaller bags into another bag to take upstairs. My room is enormous and contains a table covered with Camille’s old Lego. I ask her about it later. She’s very quick to point out, “I don’t do that now.”

We have dinner in the garden: tomato salad, with tomatoes from the garden; courgette risotto, with courgettes from the garden; mayonnaise; sausages—not from the garden.

“We don’t keep animals. It was my parents’ farm, but now we just live here.”

Then comes the famous Sainte-Maure goat’s cheese, followed by dessert.

We talk about how difficult it is for them to visit London because of the cost, something they’ve looked into as a way for Camille to improve her English. Camille speaks with remarkable maturity, asking questions about English schools and school uniforms, and giving her views on teenagers and mobile phones. Maybe it’s an only-child thing, but it feels like having a fresh adult at the table.

As usual, everything is arranged for the morning. Marie, who is a nurse, leaves at 6.30, after which Emmanuel will be left to deal with me, my coffee and my breakfast.

It’s been lovely to spend time in another family’s home. And it’s always nice to have my preconceptions gently dispelled.

Thank you, Camille, for that.

Postscript. It didn’t seem right not to make space for the simple little Dutch reform church in the woods before Sainte Catherine de Fierbois. A little history below.