Day 27: Pimbo to Pomps
- Simon Pollack
- May 23, 2024
- 7 min read
Updated: Mar 27
Intergenerational appreciation club
Desk-bound or vocational, along the pilgrims rub
Insistent quizzing makes us all want other than the Teut.
But Josse’s happy Calvados turns out to be a beaut.
23 May 2024, Thursday
Distance hiked 28.1km (17.4m) | Ascent 883m |
I enjoyed today’s walking a great deal. We seem finally to have left the mud behind, that entry to Pimbo being the last vestige (I hope). Yes, today there were quite a lot of roads, but the countryside around us is lovely, the Pyrenees beckon, and this is a very sparsely populated region so vehicles are rare and there’s plenty of space to breathe and reflect. And, indeed, the intensity of pilgrims is a fair bit lower than it was when I look back to my days of walking a few weeks back before Cahors.
A quick blast to Arzacq-Arraziguet, a town 6km away I could see from Paula’s patio, which I shared some of the way with Catherine and her two French walking companions Laurence (this being a girl’s name in France – the feminine version of Laurent) and Patrick. But they pushed on well ahead while it took me, with queues and questions, an hour to purchase a sandwich and some fruit.
It’s worth mentioning here a phenomenon that started around this time, four weeks into my French adventure, that has never happened to me before. I had physical cravings for some, and aversions to other, types of food. Yes, sure, sometimes you fancy a burger or whatever. But I’d had so much duck, duck, duck, and so little fruit and veg, that I was desperate to eat salads and fruits. I didn’t want to stop the meat, but I wanted it balanced. And the breakfasts: 27 days in a row of bread, butter and jam. Most places gave us a plain yoghurt too (which was tasty with jam). But this was firstly a bit too much carb (short-lasting energy) and not enough protein (the long-lasting energy release favoured by endurance athletes like we hikers!) And secondly just so monotonous. I wanted fruits, eggs, muesli; at least a variation in baking produce. An omelette, a Danish, my kingdom for a kiwi.
And this is why I had to queue behind the kind of people who do their shopping in the local minimarket at 9.30am (old people, who chat a lot) to buy an apple, a banana, and four clementines. And why my shopping trip took an hour.
Never mind, off I set and much did I enjoy it. At one point I encountered Jean-Luc for the 5th time or so in a week and a bit, and Heather bounding up from goodness knows where, and a few others as we reached a crossroads (literally and figuratively). I was the only one who decided to take the Chemin, while they marched on minor tarmacked roads to Louvigny, a mid-point town on today’s walk. I’m now renaming Pilgrims’ Mud Avoidance Syndrome to MDS: Mud Derangement Syndrome. For we had reasonable evidence the mud was largely done with, and apart from anything else the geology had turned a little stonier which would be less mud-inducive; and this route I took was not to be missed! Yes it rose and rose, which by now was actually fun for those with the lungs and muscles who’d done four weeks of the Chemin. And there was not another person in sight. It went on for mile after mile, famers’ tracks without trace of a farmer. Beautiful views on all sides. Pure peace and tranquility. Gorgeous. At one point looking back I saw 20 minutes or more behind me (it wasn’t straight but you could see snaking trails up hillsides) another lone pilgrim; but otherwise this was just me alone, and wonderful it was.
Coming myself to Louvigny it, yes, started to rain. Time for a pitstop and in that way that fate provides, I stumbled across a gîte that also offered café services. In I went and, bang, there was Heather. And bang, there was a chocolate cake. A coke, a coffee, and but half my sandwich, and I had room for a slice of this home-made delight. Food is all the sweeter when you feel you’ve physically earned it, and I had.
And so arrived Barbara, slightly wetter than me, for it turned out she was the pilgrim behind me. Smart girl, for taking the true route. I liked these two a good deal, interesting conversations, positive and vibrant (younger than me, and not jaded by life as some of us oldies can be). After lunch the rain abated and we walked the rest of the way to Pomps together. A great chat, like at other times of the walk, saw the kilometres vanish into thin air, and I asked Heather about the Millennials vs Boomers (I’m an early Gen X) conflict. It was rare for me to be able to spend this much time, unshackled by software development or insurance industry context, with someone a clear generation younger than me.
She trotted out a trope or two, sure (“you’ve bought all the properties and made them expensive!”) but recognised the great flexibility in career options and the ease of digitally-enabled life her generation benefits from. The beef is largely, I think, that the relationship between property prices and salaries has diverged, and that a lifetime’s work is now longer as pension ages are increased. This is true, but one-sided, for other costs of living and the range of life and career options now are far more attractive. Heather is a living example of this, recognising her career as a teacher isn’t going to meet her life needs and, after months of travelling (who in my generation could do this mid-career?!) is going to return to Canada to re-train as an accountant, with a view to a life of greater liquidity (if slightly less inspiring) and hence future optionality. She knows hard work is required, always and everywhere, for the possibility of any desired outcome, and she doesn’t have that sense of entitlement that my lot of oldsters sometimes imputes to her and the younger generation. An intelligent, articulate and self-aware young woman; and meanwhile Barbara, between us in age, seems a less complex prospect, who trained in social work but works in local government and has a complete passion for walking.
A village or two before Pomps I noticed that we were getting into an area where the rural-urban pride stepped up a gear. Neat hedges, well-tended gardens, clean and tidy houses, no fading paint on the shutters. At Pomps there’s a gîte or two, and a grocery store doubling as a bar / café, but I’d selected a chambre d’hôtes at Morlanne 4km away and off the chemin. Cécile Grandguillotte, my hostess, had offered to pick me up from Pomps. At the grocery store, bhoof there’s Dominique! Such a pleasure to see her again. I also bumped into a couple of chaps whose company I’d enjoyed at the communal dinner last night and we enjoyed a beer together. I left a message for Cécile and 15 minutes later there she was to take me to my home for the evening.
The Grandguillotte farm in Morlanne includes basic accommodation but magnificent home cooking. Before sampling that, though, I noted from a 70s bathroom and creaking old single bed that the sheets were high quality linen and perfectly ironed. I know this kind of place, full of authenticity, and it gave me a good feeling about the evening meal. I had a couple of hours from my shower until dinner so I explored the town. There is the most perfect little castle here, restored by a private family who acquired it 50 years ago to truly wonderful condition and it is well worth a visit (I just got a quick look before it closed, unfortunately). The other end of town had a market where I was able to pick up some rillettes – my favourite kind of charcuterie and astonishingly unavailable in Britain.
And back to dinner. A large Frenchman with a big smile called Josse, whom I got to know well over the following days, was one guest, and the other was Hans, from Germany. It was utterly convivial, mixing between the two languages du jour (Hans speaks English and dabbles in French; Josse speaks English though not as well as my French). Hans is lovely but showed a certain social gaucheness that can be characteristic of his nation: he kept asking me how come England can’t pull together a championship team that can bring home the world cup. He asked out of genuine interest and, indeed, concern; but everyone knows this question to an Englishman, especially from a German, is sensitive and delicate, and my dissembling answer would have led a Frenchman or a Brit to another topic. But, no, Hans kept insisting. I wasn’t offended, while another might have been; but it did make me realise I’ve a lot more in common with a typical Frenchman (as Josse was: humorous, full of anecdotes, bon-vivant and charming) than a typical German.
But the whole meal was just a delight, really, both in the company and the food. Cécile prepared for us a lovely soup, a home-made terrine, a sumptuous roast chicken with potatoes roasted in duck fat, and crepes for dessert. Wine flowed freely. And I agreed with Josse that an Armagnac would be perfect to round it off and dispatched him, as one with authentic gallic charm, to negotiate such with Cécile. Back he came with a full bottle of Calvados (a very decent substitute!) to be imbibed at liberty. I discovered he didn’t even pay for it, Cécile just let us have it.
Breakfast the next morning included the usual fare but was embellished with more crepes – a very nice touch, thank you Cécile! And on parting I realised all of this, a magnificent meal and a splendid breakfast, set me back 48 euros including the accommodation. Unbelievable value for money, and I greatly appreciated this wonderful authentic French hostess.
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