In the end, I tell everyone I’m a contra-pilgrim. “Je suis un
contra-pèlerin,” I say, each time someone asks me why I’m walking
the wrong way along the pilgrimage trail to Santiago de Compostela. It saves
time. Otherwise, I’d spend the whole day standing about, explaining over and
over again that, no, I’ve not been to Spain already, and no, I’ve no
intention of going, and, actually, I’m just out for a lovely walk in a
beautiful part of France – and that, as far as I’m concerned, is reason
enough for being here.
Well, that and the fact that walking every day means I can eat more magret
de canard in the evening.
The pilgrims – the ones heading in the “proper” direction – looked baffled.
They’re a pretty serious bunch, on the whole – hardly surprising, really,
given that they’ve just embarked on a 1,000-mile hike through southern
France and northern Spain in a quest to renew their faith.
Over the past 20 years, there has been such a vigorous revival of this
pilgrimage that on any day in spring and summer, you’ll meet 20 or 30 of
them on the waymarked route, decked out in the latest hiking gear, evenly
spaced (about half a mile between each group), heads down as, one by one,
they slay their inner demons. Dilettantes like me are so unexpected, they
seem genuinely shocked by my appearance.
Yep:contra-pèlerin sums it up nicely.
Gascony is the perfect place to practise my new calling. I’ve signed up for a
five-day hiking itinerary here, starting in Castéra-Verduzan and finishing
in Lectoure, with two days of circular walks en route. It’s organised by
Inntravel, which specialises in self-propelled travel, and is called the
Sunflowers and Abbeys trip.
“Foie Gras, Armagnac and Not Too Many Big Hills” would be a better
description. Lost in a 60-mile stretch of France between the River Garonne
and the foothills of the Pyrenees, this is one of the gentlest, most
profoundly rural parts of France you could hope to find – a rolling
landscape of wheat fields, vineyards and rich, reddish-brown earth. The food
and wine coaxed from it is deservedly famous, and the big, solid farmhouses
are testament to the wealth it brings. The only strain a five-day walk here
is going to bring is to my waistline.
What’s more, the people at Inntravel know exactly how to cater to my needs.
They’ve surgically removed any element from the experience that might be
called arduous or unpleasant. So, when I arrive at Agen railway station – 10
deliciously idle hours after leaving Waterloo – I’m not faced with a long
slog out of town, chewing on everyone’s exhaust fumes. Instead, a nice man
with my name on a notice board is waiting to whisk me by taxi to my first
hotel. Then, each day that I move on to a new base, I pack my bag, leave it
at reception, and it’s driven on to my next destination. All I need carry is
my camera, a couple of sandwiches and the day’s supply of suncream.
I don’t even have to sweat over the route. Inntravel has done that for me. Not
all of it is on the pilgrims’ trail, but where it isn’t, it still follows
the waymarked paths of France’s superb network of sentiers de
grande randonnée (or GRs). And, just in case I don’t have the sense
to follow the little coloured signs that are pinned to every significant
tree and gatepost, it has supplied me with maps as beautiful as anything
provided by our own Ordnance Survey – the 1:25,000 range of the Institut
Géographique National are set to a scale so generous (1cm covers just 250
metres) that I can make out virtually every footstep. Not only that, I’ve
been equipped with extensive notes describing the route. “After 100 metres,
the road bears half left, but your path goes straight on” is the kind of
detail they give you. “It becomes a grassy track with glorious views to the
right. Almost anywhere along this section of the path, you could find a good
picnic spot.” And I do. Thanks very much for the tip, guys.
Truth is, if I’d done this kind of thing when I was a teenager, I would have
hated it. That was the last time I spent more than a day walking anywhere –
and, back then, the hard parts of the trip were all that mattered. There
wasn’t much else of significance going on in my life, so walking as far as
possible with a 60lb pack on my back, along narrow, difficult paths, made
life suddenly more interesting. But that was 23 years ago, and my life now
is quite interesting enough, thank you.
Having every last scrap of uncertainty removed from the journey is exactly
what I need. All I have to do is supply a little bit of muscle and an awful
lot of appetite. Gastronomically speaking, the highlight of the trip comes
in the town of Condom, on my third night in France.
Characteristically, Inntravel has found the best hotel in town – Les Trois Lys
– to be a base for its clients. It’s set in a compact but elegant
18th-century mansion, and the chef, Karine Faggion, and owner, Jean-Marc
Miguet, are a formidable double act. She cranks out subtle variations on
Gascon standards in the kitchen, while he provides an intricate and
beautifully judged tour of the region’s wines and liqueurs.
Needless to say, duck liver is a big feature of the meal. I eat five pieces of
it, flavoured with everything from saffron to dried apricots, accompanied by
a glass of local white. “I’ve got the perfect thing to go with this,” Miguet
says when I ask him to suggest a wine, and he brings out a glass of L’Eté
Gascon, from the Château de Pellehaut. It’s a mix of chardonnay and the
Gascon grape gros manseng, and it is ever so slightly sweet – the perfect
foil for the earth-and-butter flavour of the foie gras. It’s one of those
meals you want never to end.
It’s a good job the walk that follows this particular pig-out is the longest
of the trip. It starts with a short hop in a taxi to a village called La
Romieu, recently accorded World Heritage status by Unesco, and the site of a
magnificent assemblage of 14th-century collegiate church and cloister. It
has original frescoes in the sacristy, and even an air of Name of the Rose
mystery. During my tour, the guide points to a long crack, following the
shape of an arch, in the wall beneath the wall painting. “At some point in
the 14th century, this was covered up,” he says. “And the distance between
here and the next room is more than three metres. I think there is something
behind it.”
Unfortunately, with 12 miles to cover before supper, there’s not too much time
to ponder what that something might be.
From La Romieu, the path is broad and – as ever – easy to follow. I hoof
through thick oak woodland and past undulating fields where the wheat rolls
like Atlantic breakers.
Every 10 minutes brings another pilgrim of St James –“ Bonjour.
Yes, yes, I know I’m going the wrong way” – and, in between, a host of rich
rural smells. Yes – middens are among them, but there’s also the sweetness
of blossom, the tang of nettles and the sudden earthiness of wet bark.
Bees hum and all kinds of creatures rustle in the hedgerows beside me:
pheasants, rabbits and, once, a fox. He shoots off up ahead in panic, looks
back and realises from my easy, ambling pace that I pose not the slightest
danger. So he slows down and – for a while – walks on in front of me. All
day, he’s the only creature I meet who’s going my way.
For the last three miles, I can see my goal – the town of Lectoure, which sits
on the crest of the most significant hill in the area, and shoots a
cathedral tower into the sky for extra effect. It looks promising, and my
pace picks up as soon as I see it.
I’m not disappointed. If you could boil down just about every daydream you’ve
ever had about French provincial life, it would end up looking like this:
mighty medieval walls, a long, narrow high street lined with shutters and
shops, and a simple, pious cathedral. As I walk into the main square, a
brass band suddenly starts to play – fast, zany and, it seems,
quintessentially French. It appears that the mayor of Lectoure – in league
with local estate agents – has hatched a plot to seduce every passing
English tourist.
As it turns out, there’s a proper reason for their joie de vivre.
There has been a wedding, and rose petals are still scattered by the west
door of the cathedral. The reception at the town hall is now over, and the
twentysomething couple are climbing into the first car in a small motorcade
made up entirely of antique Citroën 2CVs. Once they’ve been waved off, the
crowd of wellwishers begins to disperse, and I can’t help watching them as I
sip an aperitif in a pavement cafe.
They chatter about the event, and, even though absolutely everyone has an
opinion on the dress (too long, too showy, and did I hear “too white” from
someone?), you can tell how touched they all were by what they’ve just seen.
Here, now, bathed by the late-afternoon Gascon sunshine, life is good, their
smiles seem to be saying. And I know exactly how they feel.
Travel brief
Sean Newsom travelled as a guest of Inntravel (01653 617906, www.inntravel.co.uk),
which offers a six-night independent walking holiday in Gascony from £572pp,
including return rail travel from London (via Lille) to Agen, taxi and
luggage transfers, B&B accommodation, two dinners, three picnics and
detailed walking maps and notes. In some towns, hotel upgrades are offered,
for example to Les Trois Lys, in Condom. Other companies offering walking
holidays in France include Waymark (0870 950 9800, www.waymarkholidays.com)
and Headwater (0870 066 2650, www.headwater.com).
