WHEN WALKING

Home to Santiago – Day 28

Saint-Jean-d’Angely to Saintes: 36km

This morning I wake up early, but I delay my start as the thunder rumbles outside. Very few lightning flashes, though, and not the downpour I’d expected, indeed, hoped for.

So, at seven o’clock, after a brief goodbye to Suliac, I get walking in the spotting rain. If it stays like this, the light rain is pleasantly cooling. A coat would be unbearable in the humidity. When I look at Meteo France, I see the feels-like temperature is significantly higher than the measured one. If only that storm would break properly.

But the strange weather does give rainbows as I leave the town. And even now, as I record this, the dark clouds I’m half wishing for appear in front of me, and I’m not sure I really am that ready for them.

At eight o’clock, I receive a phone call from Claire, who has just arrived in Saint-Jean-d’Angély, and is standing outside the albergue that I have just left. She too has come for the mass today, and I tell her to make herself known to Suliac. For now, she’s had enough of walking in the heat, and so is walking and catching lifts in combination. Tonight, she may jump ahead to Saint, where I am staying. And maybe I will finally get the restaurant dinner I’ve been considering. I’ll be hungry by then. I left today’s sandwich in the fridge.

As the weather settles, and I’m left with a breezy, cloudy and not unbearably warm day, I start walking like a normal person again. Not just running for shade or keeping an eye on the sun. I could happily walk all day in weather like this.

The first church I come to, very appropriately, is the Church of the Assumption. The church itself has a beautiful exterior, but even more interesting is next door, in the grounds, what appears to be a minaret, or something that resembles the bell towers I saw in Ireland. But this is a lighthouse for the dead, lit in their memory, and also found at crossroads to help guide the dead to where they need to be. I find it odd that the dead still choose to travel by road.

Apparently this tower is the best example there is in France, and it looks as good as new. Even the staircase inside is intact, although I decide not to squeeze up this narrow tower.

At lunchtime, I sit down to think about the sandwich I left behind, with a perfectly framed view of the church at Juic, when a message from an unknown number pops up.

I’m delighted to find a photograph of Suliac and Claire, who have indeed found each other at the church, as both were called up for a pilgrim blessing. I feel as though today’s work is half done, apart from the remaining 16 kilometres.

A further pleasant surprise happens when I come across “the last bar before Bordeaux” (lie, I hope. It’s almost a week away) in Duhet, where I indulge in a mid-walk panaché. All the regulars are huddled around the bar, with a huge fan pumping air at them. Sitting at a table on the other side of it, I soon understand why.

I don’t know if it’s the heat, or the panaché, or the lack of a tuna and egg baguette, but before I can leave the village of Duhet, I feel an overwhelming urge to sleep. I go into a church, which has a stone roof, and therefore is properly cool. Anyone seeing me would imagine me to be truly devout, as I sit with my head on the chair in front.

Eventually, I walk out of the village, tempted to just lie on the verge, but knowing it’s only a 13-kilometre walk, and I actually have a bed waiting for me. It’s a sign of how tired I am that there’s a great big chateau in Duhet between the bar and the church, which I completely forgot to record.

I have been thinking as I walked through the lovely wooded paths today, how the flies had stopped bothering me after leaving Normandy. But as if to prove a point, as I pass into a wood that seems no different from any other today, they suddenly start to attack me worse than ever.

When the forest path crosses a small road, I scramble for my insect repellent, useless, and my head net, brilliant. I feel like I’ve been ambushed and I’m struggling to arm myself while the attack’s already underway. Twenty minutes later, still in the woods, they disappear. There is no logic with flies. What do they even want from me?

At about four o’clock, I pass through a golf course, which features the ruins of a Roman aqueduct. That keeps me going. To finish this long day, I need to break down the route into sections.

After the golf course (stage one), I go through a pleasant forest with an archery course (stage two). I appreciate each end of the day being bookmarked by different kinds of arc.

Next, I walk alongside the road, on my own beautiful raised path (section three).

Section four is along the river. There are tents out. I don’t know if it’s people living there or for anglers set up for the night. A group of teenage boys are up to no good by a bridge, but almost like a reflex as I walk past, they all chant, “Bonjour, madame.” Finally, the elegant houses and monumental cathedral of Saintes come into view.

What I see of Saintes, as I march through, is beautiful. And I do march through. The halte jacquaire is part of the complex of the Basilica of Saint-Eutropia, and of course, just on the other side of the highest part of the town. I arrive on time and find the tiny hidden away accommodation, thanks to a group of men drinking outside the basilica, who seeing I am lost, approach me and explain the way.

When I finally arrive, the hospitaliers are there to greet me and show me the beautiful little room built into the walls of the Basilica itself. The first question is what flavour cordial I would prefer, an excellent opener. The tiny room has everything.

Already there are Jean-Baptiste and Mattheus, who, having heard me say to the hospitalier that I would like to practise my French, greet me in French for the first time, with barely disguised amusement.

We have a couple of new pilgrims. First there is the extraordinary Evelyn, a young Ukrainian/Armenian/French woman, who is walking the route at a very leisurely pace, carrying a violin, and sleeping in woods when she can. The other is Alain, who greets me with, “You have an accent, where are you from?” I’m tempted to say Germany.

And just after the hospitaliers have gone, Claire arrives with two members of the family who she’s walked with today, giving her a joyous end to her time on this Camino. She’s so happy to have finished the trip this way. The joy is somewhat abated when she discovers she has lost her glasses, but she manages to improvise with sunglasses and we go out for a final dinner.

We pick up pizza to eat at the guingette above the city, but not before the pizza shop owner makes us guess his nationality. I get it on the third guess. He is a coptic Egyptian he tells us, and we chat with him and his wife until our first two guesses are forgiven or forgotten. When we finally reach the guingette, the poor tired young man in charge reopens briefly to give us our beer and panaché.

We find our way back to the halte for 10.30. It’s a late night on the trail.