Day 20: Espalais to Castet-Arrouy
- Simon Pollack
- May 16, 2024
- 6 min read
With Dylan’s black a virtue, the Chemin full of mud
While waiting Albert’s phone call, while clouds did chill my blood
I slip-slid into Miradoux, a creature void of form
The open door before me offered shelter from the storm
16 May 2024, Thursday
Distance hiked 24.7km (15.4m) | Ascent 783m |
The climb to Auvillar, and the town itself with incredible views and an equally incredible church, were fun. Auvillar (population under 1000) has a church appointed like a lavish cathedral.
This was a stage of the walk where I was struggling to get accommodation and I’d eventually found a chambre d’hôtes called Au Musée d’Albert. Albert’s real – it’s his place – and he has a real museum which I visited the next morning.
But Auvillar to Castet-Arrouy, Albert’s village, is muddy. Or at least it was, very much so, when I walked it. As I reached an intermediate town called St Antoine for a coffee break I was running my shoes through puddles at the bus stop to try to wash off some of the surface mud and a pilgrim following me in did the same. We compared notes that our shoes seemed to weigh a kilo each more than normal with the surplus sticky stuff they accumulate on such a walk. This wasn’t dangerous mud, of the slippy slidy sort, though it was messy as all mud is; but it stuck and it made the going slow.
My fellow pilgrim joined me for a coffee. His name was Nhân, French of Vietnamese extraction, and he left Le Puy the same day as me, but is experiencing the Chemin differently: he is actively trying to bivouac his way to his destination (he will break off at Aire-sur-l’Adour and head back home to Paris after a few more days of non-pilgrimage walking).
He makes a little tent including his walking poles as tent poles – neat efficiency – usually in shelters of towns like bus shelters, “halles” (covered markets often of some antiquity) and the like. He would gather some wood, or be given some by friendly locals, and make a fire. Aware this has the air of vagrancy, Nhân does it discreetly, setting up his camp as the sun sets and setting off early before people get grumpy at his presence. I didn’t ask details but I presume he carries a poo-spade and toilet paper. This is roughing it to a degree far beyond my yen, but Nhân actively likes doing this. He seemed well educated and was certainly employed so I imagine this wasn’t budgetarily imposed on him (you can eat two large meals a day and get a shower and bed, all for 40 euros, so this is a very cheap vacation even for those not camping out). He chooses a hotel once a week to get properly showered and to hand-wash some clothes, a small sop to modern creature comforts. I liked Nhân, he had a great sense of humour and an infectious laugh, and I’d bump into him a few more times before we parted ways at Aire.
A fit looking couple, older than me, turned up at the café, and saying hello and exchanging a few words it turned out they were also heading for Albert’s museum. This was Neil and Tanya, from New Zealand, and I had a couple of really fun evenings with them.
The mud continued consistently beyond St Antoine, all the way to Castet-Arrouy. As I was 2km short of Miradoux, itself 5km from my destination, I received a call from Albert for confirmation of my stay and to ask what time I expected to arrive. I told him two hours, and he informed me, with some irony given I’m a solo traveller, that my room was to be called “Romantique”.
The following two kilometres saw a dramatic storm approach, looking almost like a tornado as its stark presence was clearly delineated in the broad sky. I took a photo at one point and the wind was on my face so I knew it was heading straight for me. I hefted up the rapidity and got into Miradoux (“excuse me miss, is there a café in this town?”; “yes, 100m down there on the right”, praise be to God!) just as the rain started to fall heavily. Sploshing muddily into the café, whose “Ouvert” sign I had fervently hoped for, I greeted the two pairs of diners at lunch. One was a couple of cyclists I’d seen an hour earlier. The other were clearly locals.
“‘Ouvert’ is the best word in the world!” I said to break the ice and to reduce their shock of seeing a rather wet, extremely muddy, pilgrim escape the storm into the harbour of this establishment. After I’d removed my rucksack but before I’d taken my seat, Albert called again. “Allo?” I said, “I can see you” he said to me in French. It took me a moment to realise it, but the local diners were Albert and his wife Isabelle! I had a nice chat with them, introducing myself and talking about the weather and the Chemin. He explained that he’d not be there to greet us as he had a dentist’s appointment but had left the place ready for us. Neil and Tanya and I were to be the only guests.
It remained muddy all the way to Castet Arrouy but it was lovely to arrive. His place is well set up, with a buanderie (laundry room) which I attended after cleaning myself up. There were two washing machines, one full and the other not plugged in. So I plugged it in. And blew the electricity to the whole house. Fortunately Albert returned 15 minutes later and with a roll of his eyes (stupid Brit! But how was I to know?) he restored power. Later, as I was removing my washing from the machine, a swallow which had found its way in managed to crap on me. The irony of this very moment being the one to be soiled was so funny it vastly outweighed the minor inconvenience.
I had dinner with Neil and Tanya 30 meters from our place at La Plancha. Despite its name this is a fairly traditional French restaurant, of a little better than average quality for its terribly remote location (this is a tiny hamlet of 180 inhabitants, albeit with a large church). We were greeted by a lithe young chap with hooped shirt and raspberry beret (the kind you’d find in a second-hand store), looking like he wanted to play someone in a comedy film shoving baguettes under his arm and cycling along with a Gauloise hanging from his lip. Perfectly friendly but replaced a little later by the owner, his father, who was a serious restaurateur. We ate well and had a fabulous laugh – these were the best of antipodeans, outwards-looking, professional and well-educated, as well as interesting and interested. Neil is a retired ophthalmologist, and Tanya his former practice manager. As he put it, among all his colleagues, he was the only one who got to sleep with the boss! These two have family in England and have hiked all over the country, in Spain, in France, and from Canterbury to Rome. Wow. They take a rhythm with varying stage distances and plenty of rest days – they aren’t in a rush – but what an open-minded and adventurous lifestyle they lead.
We asked for an Armagnac for digestif and monsieur placed a large bottle on the table for liberal self-application. After we had had a couple too many, perhaps, he passed it to another table behind me where a lone diner had just finished his meal. I hadn’t quite perceived of him but as he left we chatted briefly and he was a pilgrim, from Israel. Given the current hot climate (politically) in that region, and my strong support for the Israeli cause after the atrocity they suffered at the hands of the terrorists who run Gaza, I rather wish I’d thought of inviting him to join us. But who knows, these are hot button issues and it may have dampened the splendid mood we’d eaten in. It was fun and we agreed we would do it again a couple of days later in Condom.
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