WHEN WALKING

Home to Santiago – Day 29

Saintes to Pons: 25km

It’s past eleven by the time I finally leave Saintes. I was planning to leave late so I could see the cathedral and the basilica which I’d missed last night, but eleven is pushing it.

First of all, breakfast in the halte, which is provided. The boys have left early, but it’s a nice little group with me, Claire, Evelyn, Alain, and the hospitalier when he arrives.

I tell Evelyn that I am inspired to follow her example and try wild camping in the woods. She says she will give me some tips. “First, never keep your food in the tent. You must hang it in a tree to stop the wild boars coming” she tells me. She offers other tips, but although I listen politely, that one tip was enough.

I go with Claire to the basilica of Saint Eutropius. The crypt particularly is very atmospheric, plain, ancient and a little dank. Then we carry on down to the cathedral, a monumental building, but as I learn from reading the information boards inside, it’s been through many difficult times, sacked during the wars of religion. I realise this is a historical blindspot I need to read up on.

And finally, the last cathedral for me, the supermarket, where Claire kindly waits outside while I shop and pack and repack. I’m there long enough to catch a probably last meeting with Belgium Marie, who is on her way to mass. She’ll be spending the day in Saintes today.

Poor Marie stayed at a hotel last night, as her email to the hospitaliers had been lost, and all beds were taken when she reached the halte. It seems extremely unfair as she’s the most organized one amongst us.

In the foyer of the Co-op, I say a final farewell to them both, put on my new blue sun lotion and start the walk out of town. I shall be walking in the heat of the day. Ten minutes later, I return for my sticks.

There is a new occurrence, walking out of Saintes, along a busy road. Although it’s not quite as hot as it has been, it’s hot enough without the shade. And the greatest temptation of any hot walker appears when a couple pull over and ask me if I’d want a lift part of the way.

I’m so happy at the offer I want to jump in, but I have to politely refuse. I tell them that I promised myself I’d do it all on foot. I made no such promise. They drive away, and I think, maybe I was meant to take that lift. But I didn’t, so clearly, I was not.

“The people and businesses of Les Gonds welcome you!” Signs announcing that the people and businesses of such and such a village welcome you can be slightly galling when you’re entering a village on a Sunday or a feast day or at lunchtime or on the mayor’s third cousin’s wedding anniversary or on whatever other occasion they have to close everything down.

But today, having almost despaired, just as I’m about to leave town, as expected, a massive out-of-town artisanal patisserie boulangerie is open. And I feel obliged, after my internal grumblings, to go in. As I’m not hungry, having eaten last night’s leftover pizza at the first possible lunch opportunity, and I can’t really excuse getting another bottle because I’ve already got three in my bag, I sit down to enjoy for the first time in many years, and perhaps possibly ever, because I don’t think I ever really liked them, a slushie.

Just as I remembered, they’re disappointing once you suck the syrup out, but still deliciously cold. I pour the warm water from one of my bottles into the remaining slush and get an extra cold drink out of it. I am almost a convert.

The rest of the day is a long stretch, 18 kilometres of field and farm walking. Not unpleasant, but very little shade. Hot, but luckily with a breeze. To keep myself going, I play some tunes. I notice I have only ever saved music at a brisk walking pace, with the exception of The Stripper, which is more of a triumphant stride.

At four o’clock I go online to meet my delightful ex colleagues for our inaugural film club, hosted by the lovely Rachael (cue ‘like’). We discuss 12 Angry Men. I get so involved I leave my sticks behind at the little shelter where I stop to take part. It is a ten minute walk back to get them when I realise. I am one angry woman.

Finally, after a day almost relentless sun, I arrive at the dungeon of Pons, where I must check in. The last few hundred metres I am accompanied by Alain, who I see walking up through the street, and who, having left at the proper time, has had time to look around the town and defilth himself.

The man in the tourist office tells me, as all the shops are closed, there is nowhere I can get anything to eat or drink. “But if you have any food you can take it to this place by the river”. I say it is a shame there is no guinguette there. “Oh yes, there is a guinguette there” he replies. Pons, it turns out, is stuffed full with places to eat and drink, all open.

As I leave the tourist office, a woman steps away from her family with a tin of biscuits and asks me if I’m a pilgrim and if I’d like to take one. She says her children saw me and they wanted her to offer. They have learnt about pilgrims at school. I’m almost moved to tears. It’s a very nice biscuit.

So I walk down to the Halte Jacqaire, which is built right on the edge of town. Historically it was important that it be outside the city gates, so late-arriving pilgrims, like myself, would not be locked out for the night. I appreciate the sentiment, but not the extra distance.

But as I walk down the hill, I see some chairs out on the street and just opposite the little church of Saint Viviane is an Indian restaurant where I’m able to sit down outside and drink an Orangina and rehumanise.

When I get to the halte, Alain is there. There is also another new pilgrim, this time a cyclist. So probably the only time I’ll see her unless she passes me on the road. Then I see Matthias, who greets me in French. I’m quite sad to see he’s on his own now. Jean-Baptiste is back to work next week and decided he wants to spend some time with his family. I think he’s been suffering in this heat. Walking alone is simpler.

I leave the gite, having been thinking about the Indian restaurant ever since I had my Orangina, and go back down to sit outside with my sag paneer, my lassi and my chapati. It is a taste of home.