WHEN WALKING

Home to Santiago – Day 24

Chenay to Melle: 25km

As I set off down the road from Chenay, I’m quite excited to see two men out trimming the hedges with a scythe. You rarely see non-grim scythers nowadays.

By the time I reach them, they’re in their van, but with the windows down, and they ask me if I’m going to Saint-Jacques. They’re also very excited to tell me that there is a woman behind me who appears to be running it. I say, that’s fine, I’m going slowly. We’re going to meet. They chuckle. They’re holding something back.

But it’s nice to know there’s someone behind me this morning. I had a sociable breakfast with Claire, whose name day it is today. We said another fond farewell, although I felt it was unlikely to be final. But she left a good 45 minutes before me, so I know this person must be someone new.

Just past the village of Chey, the path does a small diversion to take in La Serpe. I have no idea what La Serpe is, but it seems to be something of importance. There’s an old laundry place, a little shelter set up, poems on the trees, but also three ladies out for a day hike. I pass them and say hello, and there’s no need for further introduction. As soon as they see the size of my rucksack and the shell on the back, they ask me if I’m doing the Chemin Saint-Jacques, and then the usual conversation ensues.

And I’ve done my job. As I walk off, I hear them talking about the Chemin Saint-Jacques, the different routes, how it’s possible to do it. I like this minor role I play, passing through people’s lives, a little thread of connection from Eastbourne to Spain. The walkers on the Downs, the men in the bar, the shopkeeper by the Seine and many others all linked by a memory that some English woman walked this route.

All these happy unexpected encounters and then comes one of few I’ve been told to expect. The lady pilgrim the men with the scythes told me about appears walking at a pace, as I approach a lane from my footpath. She must have taken the bicycle route. Oddly, when she sees me, rather than stopping when she sees me, for the usual hellos, she makes what sounds like a snort of annoyance and walks on with her head down. past her head. As I join her on the lane, I am just behind her, walking at the same pace, she doesn’t stop.

When she does stop to look at a placard, I pounce. But although she responds, she shows absolutely no pleasure in the encounter. I gather she’s walking the route in stages and she doesn’t like it, but nothing more, and slightly disconcerted, but strangely intrigued, I admit defeat and walk on. I feel the scythers knew.

However, the effect of this meeting doesn’t last long. I find a picnic bench when I get to Sepvret, and get ready to eat my 11am lunch, when suddenly the most joyful little van load of people turns up, waving and shouting, “Ah, it’s the English woman, here she is!” And it’s the people who do the signs for the routes and for the Chemin. I’ve never met a group of people who do this before, not in all my walks in any country. My excitement to see them is far greater than their excitement to see me.

They come and sit with me at the bench. I ask them if they’ve made a reservation. We all have a lovely time. And what’s more, one of the ladies gives me some cold canned drink out of her little cool box, and the man hands around the biscuits. I say yes to everything. They’re such a jolly group. It’s almost like they’ve been sent in on an emergency mission to undo the odd occurrence that went moments before.

Eventually I part from them and see Claire a little bit further in the village, taking a break too. We have a chat and I lend her my charger, before leaving, thus ensuring at least one more goodbye when we get to Melle.

I’m stopped for another five minutes by the first house I come to on the outskirts of the village, where a French woman who’s recently moved there wants to ask me about the way and the people she keeps seeing, all going in the same direction. And when I tell her about it and say, “Well, it’d be very easy for you to do the Chemin from home,” she says, “Oh yes!” I wonder.

It’s a short day, so I just enjoy my walk into Melle, and even manage to arrive five minutes before the Office du Tourisme reopens at two o’clock. I think this is the earliest I’ve been yet.

I get my stamp, get my door code, and head off to meet Claire to say goodbye and get my charger back. I find her sitting in the beautiful Saint-Pierre Church, which has now been turned into an art installation. The young student who is minding the desk comes with us to show us a good café in the town, where Claire kindly treats me to a panaché. What else.

We say our goodbyes, this time for the last time as Claire is sitting out the approaching heatwave at the abbey up the road. I head to what turns out to be my own little house on the other side of town. I have an upstairs, a downstairs, a kitchen, and there’s a double bed, which I allot myself quite pointlessly as I will still have to sleep with a tiny sleeping bag liner. But it’s the thought that counts.

I’m also five minutes’ walk from Aldi, which means I can do a taste comparison between the Aldi and the Lidl macarons, which I do. Lidl wins. I buy far too much food, which I will, however, almost certainly eat. I’m making inroads already.

After dinner, and bringing in the washing from the line, I decide to take an evening stroll now it’s cooled down. I think it’s down to 34 degrees. You can just about step outside without breaking into a sweat. And my little house is on the edge of the forest walk to the Church of Saint-Hilaire. So I start on my little circular perambulation of the town.

Saint-Hilaire is extraordinary. I’m fascinated by the carvings on the outside. A strange horseback figure, which I presume I will find explained. On the noticeboard I read “the strange horseback figure is a mystery”.

Wonderfully, the church is still open after eight o’clock. A beautiful modern altar and baptism font has been installed, and at the other end an ancient grand stairway the ceremonial doors. I walk around the little gardens, and seeing a sign for the Church Saint-Pierre, I decide to see all three of the major churches of Melle. You gotta catch them all!

I walk back past Saint-Sauvinen, where I met Claire earlier, closed now, and make my way via the old court of justice to the far side of town to visit the Church of Saint-Pierre. I am now satisfied I have ‘done’ Melle.

It’s 34 degrees when I leave, it’s 33 degrees when I get back. I move to the downstairs room and get ready for the heat to rise tomorrow.