Day 21: Castet-Arrouy to Marsolan
- Simon Pollack
- May 17, 2024
- 5 min read
Updated: Mar 27
Turns out we’re not exclusive on eccentricity
The French have got collectors, their wares displayed for free
Museum left behind me, my bivouacking friend
Seeks fire to warm his cockles; I push toward day’s endke
17 May 2024, Friday
Distance hiked 23.7km (14.7m) | Ascent 869m |
This wasn’t to be a long walk, and I didn’t set off till gone 10am. But I used the morning to spend a little over an hour at Albert’s museum. He turns out to be a true eccentric, a retired Gendarme (he’s not that old, but has been retired 20 years: that old story again!) He travels the country collecting tools, implements, weapons, and related curios that he finds interesting and that represent, or contribute to the story of, France’s patrimoine (cultural history, or heritage). The house we had stayed in wasn’t actually where he lived – over the road at the back he and Isabelle have a few horses and several hectares, a house built by Albert’s own hands (with ornamental landscape gardening including fake river, fountain and bridge), some outbuildings and the museum which occupies the ground floor of his residence.
He is handy with wood and masonry (more than handy, actually). He uses his skills and his hobby in curious ways, like rescuing a piece of wood from a bonfire that looked like a wild boar, and then mounting it on a turntable in his garden. Or like building a traditional British red telephone box from wood and placing it like a Tardis in his garden (why?). Or like acquiring three bronze statues of deer from the estate of expired Procol Harum songwriter Gary Brooker.
But Albert’s museum is truly a thing of wonderment. One man has gathered and curated these items, placed them in logical order in his one-room (a large room) display environment, researched their histories and linked them together. Categorised them, physically displayed them. He has old woodworking tools, old kitchen implements, old leather-working, stone-working, and all other trades-working tools. He has arms and weapons: indeed his oldest item is a 13th century battle axe he believes was actually used in one of the last Crusades.
He is, rightly, very proud of his efforts, and is building more space as he gathers and curates more items. But because it gets a bit of a reputation people come with nosiness to see what it’s all about. For this reason he charges a nominal 3 euros. This is to disincentivise the frivolous. But I was genuinely interested, and spent a good hour, and Albert talked me through his whole collection and was clearly very pleased at having a fascinated guest; so he didn’t charge me and I left delighted to have seen what he’d built.
I had a lovely day’s walk thereafter to Marsolan. Actually, it was a little after Marsolan, the Colline Mieucas (colline means hill). Lovely, that is, save the mud. There wasn’t a very great deal of it, which is why “lovely” still applies, but that which there was was very slippery. It made some parts very difficult, but because they were over in minutes not hours it all just added to the fun.
I haven’t mentioned recently the pain. This is because my aching feet and my blisters, my muscles and my joints are all much better. All except my knee, the operated one. Every day it twinges several times and I have to slow down a little till it passes. Sometimes it leaves me with a dull ache in the evening that takes some positioning to ease. And I often notice it swollen. Today I decided to go to a pharmacy, since I was passing a decent-sized town, to see what they could do to help. The town is Lectoure, a fortified bastion on a hill with a major cathedral. The climb in was fun (Jon reminded me, when I sent him a photo to reminisce of the hotel “Bastard” we’d smirked at 5 years ago, that I had really struggled then: Jon is like that). I ate a quick omelette (actually, a disappointing one: avoid places which attract the alkies and the smokers, even if they’re friendly) while waiting for the pharmacy to open. It did at 2pm, and I experienced a much better service than I’d ever had in the UK. I bought a knee brace but they come in several sizes. The assistant took me to a back room and measured my knee (I walk in shorts so happily no disrobing was required). My left knee, the bad one, was 45cm in circumference, compared with 43cm for the right knee. So some clear swelling. She furnished me with a perfectly-fitting knee brace with some form of semi rigid infrastructure and robust elastication, for under 30 euros. I wore it for the rest of my walk and I believe it helped a fair bit.
Prior to my arrival in Lectoure, I had caught up with Sybille and Marie-Claude from two nights ago. They were having a picnic lunch in the light rain, while I was pushing through to the town for mine. We had a pleasant chat and established, as with Neil and Tanya yesterday, that they were aiming for the same destination as me (and, as with Neil and Tanya, it turned out we were to be the only guests at the place).
The remaining walk was fun, and I bumped into Nhân in Marsolan in a sheltered area of the town awaiting sundown. Mieucas was another km or two, up a steep hill – I actively enjoy these now – and when I arrived it was exactly the same type of welcome (“accueil” in French) as we had from Véronique in Espalais. I knew this would be the case, because I’d stayed here 5 years ago with Jon. Edith, our hostess, welcomes you with a refreshing drink and lets you freshen up discreetly, then places a wonderful meal on the table. She, and her retired-farmer husband, join you (with soft drinks) for your aperitif and your digestif, but otherwise they let the guests get on with it themselves. And I got on with Sybille and Marie-Claude. Sybille’s a nurse, Marie a retired civil servant. They’re close friends and frequent walking buddies. Sybille has a caring, caring mien. She kept asking me (later even by WhatsApp) how my knee was, and that I should nurse it and rest it. She gave me some cream for my swelling. She told me about Nok for the blisters. She said I must stretch every day after walking. I took to responding “Danke Schön, Mutti”, affectionately, to her exhortations.
I slept very well after a fun evening and a lovely meal of duck (duck, like Armagnac, is very much of this region known as the Gers) and a lubrication of red wine generously supplied by Edith and little partaken-of by my fellow guests.
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