It rained all night. I slipped into the breakfast room at the Couvent de Malets—a massive and impressive complex overlooking Saint-Come—around 6:45 and heard from a couple of other pilgrims that they were going to delay their start until around 9am, when the forecast gave them some hope. My plans, though, were locked in, as the taxi was picking me up at 7:45. There was no need to re-walk the same GR-65 between Saint-Come and Estaing that I had just walked, so I paid liberally to trim those kms and pop back ahead to Estaing. Euros very well spent.
While the rain actually stalled out before I started, I knew the damage had been done. The GR-6 leaving Estaing follows a narrow footpath consistently uphill for the first few km. After a couple days of rain, it was effectively a stream, with big rocks underfoot functioning largely as black ice. I delicately maneuvered up the path, nearly face-planting once, but ultimately emerging unscathed. This hard early work pays off, because you emerge above the tree line, with sweeping views of the surrounding terrain in all directions. Normally. Today, I was in the clouds. And that’s when the rain resumed. It would accompany me to Campuac.
My legs and feet were quite wet, but the poncho did the job elsewhere, and the worst of the trail conditions were behind me. Until, that is, when the GR-6 returned to a footpath that plunged into a densely wooded gorge. There’s a creek crossing down there that I’ve never had cause to take note of; in a normal summer, it’s a non-event, like so many others on this route. Today, though, it was a surging river; a stick found bottom only after 1.5 meters or so. There wasn’t a better option within close range of the trail, as it plunged a meter immediately after, in a mini-waterfall. So, I backtracked, crept through a barbed-wire fence, tromped through some brambles, and found a crossing where the water wouldn’t go far above my ankles. Given that my feet were already developing gills after the last couple of days, I strode carelessly across and then squelched and squished my way to Campuac.
While the bakery in Campuac is sadly out of business, the grocery store carries a small selection of baked goods and the café was merrily humming along. The rain tapered off, so I sat on a wet bench and wrang out my socks.
Gradually, the world opened up a bit. The rain made one last flourish, but that was it. In time, blue skies carved out a little space among the clouds. I saw my first pilgrims on the trail around 11:30am, but they were few in number all day. Indeed, only 25 people are staying at the Conques abbey today, though that follows 70 yesterday. (They can host up to 95, according to my Quebecois host.)
Once I rejoined the GR-65, I got the very odd experience of walking the same chunk of the route for the second consecutive day. While I didn’t get the perfect blue skies I was hoping for, conditions were much improved, so I poked around both Espeyrac and Sénergues. I confess that Saint-Marcel is my favorite, though, as there’s a donkey just past the church that I’ve run into on every Chemin, and he’s a brilliant conversationalist. I’m always happy to arrive in Conques, but really, I’m most excited about this donk.
Conques is incredible, though. There’s a moment on the Camino Francés that has always stuck out in my memory—the point you reach in the meseta where the town of Hontanas suddenly emerges out of the desert, right beneath your feet. Arrival in Conques is similar, except it juts shockingly out of the woods and is a far more dramatic sight. What most stood out to me about Conques this time isn’t the buildings; rather, it’s how vibrant the gardens and greenery is around and between all of those buildings. Sometimes, historic towns seem like skeletons, all of the flesh long picked away, leaving nothing but the bleached bones behind. Conques, though, is verdant and vibrant, sparkling with color.
Of course, the buildings more than hold their own. These medieval houses are well cared for and the cobblestone roads are artistic statements in their own right. I aimlessly followed one side street after another, neck craned and swiveling in all directions, marveling at the fact that somehow, in the 13th century, some 3,000 people lived here!
The sun finally broke through, blasting its full force on the front of the cathedral. I headed straight to the tympanum, one of the most remarkable works of art anywhere on the Chemin. Perhaps I should give more attention to the good people on the left side, but my attention went straight to the devils raising hell on the right, and the many varied and graphic forms of torture they were busy inflicting. And, of course, I acknowledged the looky-loos as well.
As always, we sang for our suppers in the abbey, accompanied by the cathedral’s organist on accordion, of course. At my table, a 20-year-old from Fountainebleu sat across from me, walking her first Chemin and wild camping most days (including through last night’s vicious downpour). To my right sat Claude, an 85-year-old who continually returns to the Chemin. All of us peers.
At the pilgrim blessing, I was once again the first non-European they had seen in more than a year, so I was quickly recruited to orate the English-language reading. The monk actually broke script mid-blessing to highlight how good it was to have a “stranger” back at Conques again. If you’ve ever wondered how welcome you are in France or on the Chemin, know that many here are hungry for your presence.
The explanation of the tympanum followed, but I was focused entirely on what was next: the organ concert. And at this point, I should probably acknowledge, with apologies to the donk, that the concert is every bit as momentous a part of this visit. Even if you’re the early-to-bed type, you must be present to hear the organ belt out classic and contemporary songs, the music rippling and thumping through the cathedral with such vigor that it seems as though the walls are moving in harmony with it. It’s a stirring, stunning experience, and it’s always over too soon.
The rest of the audience and I staggered outside in the aftermath and quickly plopped down in the plaza, arrayed in front of the tympanum for dessert. We didn’t have to wait long. Bright, vivid colors started to appear on top of the tympanum, just illuminating small, isolated portions at first, but building eventually to the fully monty. Once again, Conques offers a reminder that even if only the bleached bones of the cathedral survive, it was at one point lavishly colored and a true feast for the eyes—even more so than it still proves to be.
And with that, I shuffled off to bed, and was listening to my roommate’s thunderous snoring soon after.
One thought on “And Then Back to Conques Again…”
Comments are closed.
When I arrived to Conques, I understood that línea of the psalm 130: “sustinuit anima mea in verbo eius”… really it seems that the monastery is floating up in the air.