What is the half-life of memory? At what point does a mostly-accurate recalling morph into more fiction than fact, something merely “inspired by a true story”? A shift occurred today, as my memories became far more diluted, the water far out-pacing the dollop of sirop de menthe at the bottom of the glass. Whereas I had been on the previous parts of the GR-65 as recently as 2018, on that occasion my students and I deviated southward at Lectoure, in order to route through Lourdes before reuniting with the Via Podiensis in the final approach to Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port. As a consequence, I’m now working with memories that are twice as old, dating back to 2015, and the change has been striking.
The GR-65 leaves Lectoure by descending through the fortifications on the far side of town. What a start! And on this morning, it happened with two hot-air balloons hovering overhead. While the GR-65 generally moves in a southwestwardly direction, I was headed north this morning, “officially” detouring to the village of La Romeow, I mean La Romieu. Along the way, I made a brief stop to the village of Marsolan, of which nothing remained in my memories. It’s a charming enough spot, radiating out from its rather majestic church, but it suffers for me from the malady of being the first village on a long day with more exciting destinations ahead. I was pleased to refill my water bottle, shook my fist at a locked church door, and trotted back into the fields.
While some fruit trees remain—apples and pears were more prominent today—I’ve now advanced into wine country, with vineyards gradually filling in the spaces between wheat and sunflowers. The smoothing out of France continues, with only very brief ascents of any substance.
But my mind was on La Romeow, just ahead. I love the story so much, I’ll pull the arrogant maneuver of quoting myself: “In 1342, multiple years of bad harvest led the town to famine and despair. Villagers ate whatever they could, including household pets. A local orphan, Angeline, hid a male and female cat in the attic of her home. Soon, every other pet in the village had been killed. The next year, the harvest was bountiful, but the crops were quickly threatened by rodents, loving life in a cat-free town. Angeline offered to give her cats to the village for protection, on the condition that townspeople promised never to harm a pet again. Her cats killed all of the rodents and saved the crops. In the 1960s, a local sculptor who grew up with this story carved stone cats, still perched on buildings all across town.”
When I arrived, the parking lots surrounding the small town were stuffed with cars. Despite the fact that it should have been open for visits, the collegiate church’s ticket office was locked tight. But then I saw the beautiful people, all nattily-clad, casually gliding from the church’s old “official” entrance, and I took that as an invitation, swiftly pulling on my face mask and ripping off my hat. (I’ll note that while I am very pleased to wear the mask in any and all situations that are required, there’s a special kind of minor, inconsequential agony that accompanies donning the mask immediately after steady exercise in warm weather. It’s a bit like getting stuck in traffic in a tunnel on a hot day, that furnace billowing right back into your face.) The Gothic cloisters, damaged as they were, remain elegant and while the angle required to enjoy the church towers overhead will lead to a kink in the neck, vale la pena. Unfortunately, the door to the stairs leading to the octagonal tower was locked, so my sneaking only generated mixed returns, but I managed to slip into the church for a few minutes before I earned a dirty look. From there, I settled for an overpriced café au lait in the plaza, scoping out the cat statues all around.
The waymarking from La Romieu was sufficient, but it occurred to me while walking that once one becomes accustomed to waymarks every 10m, as is often the case here, it can be tremendously unsettling when they don’t appear for 50m, even when there are no possible turns along the way! There are long stretches out of La Romieu where the waymarks are quite sparing, but if you just stay the course it all goes well.
While La Romieu was vivid in my memory, the stretch from here to Condom had faded. The village of Castelnau-sur-l’Auvignon is the kind of place I’ve come to really appreciate. It’s not going to be featured on any regional highlight reels. I bet lots of pilgrims pass through it with little remark. It is a lovingly cared for place, though, with the pride of local residents displayed on the info boards that seem to adorn every edifice in town, and well-manicured flowers filling the spaces between. And a little ways after Castelnau, I thoroughly enjoyed a break at the Chapelle Sainte-Germaine de Soldanum, where the chapel is surrounded by a shady, grass-filled park that is perfect for lunch or a nap, or both.
I’ve stayed on the two extremes of Condom. My first time, I stayed on the far side, at Gite de Gabarre. That place sticks in my memory like few gites do, as it’s a cavernous former winery filled with barrels. I was alone inside for the bulk of my time there, marveling at the remarkable space I’d landed in. The second time, I stayed at L’Ancien Carmel, on the near side, just before the official town marker. That too holds a vivid place in my mind, as the gite shares a space with a retirement community, and my students and I ate dinner with the residents. Our host was as kind and considerate a man as I’ve met on any pilgrimage.
This time around, I only rested and did a bit of sightseeing (and eating) in Condom. The cathedral, in particular, blew my mind. The Gothic assault continues and this remarkable work of art feels as light and airy as any of them. I was struck this time by the lace-like framing around the ambulatory, somehow separating the altar in a manner that felt absolute and fragile at the same time.
It was a hot afternoon, but I was at peace with my choice to move on, as I had something exciting lined up: a night near the smallest fortified village in France, Larressingle. While I’d rather it be “in” than “near,” I’ll take what I can get. And La Halte de Larressingle is quite a get. As it turns out, I’m the only pilgrim here tonight (there are only four beds in the dorm room), but the space is immaculate and the yard is outstanding. Were it a clearer day, my host Isabelle told me, I could see the Pyrenees quite well from here. Instead, I’ll have to wait a bit longer.
As for Larressingle? Upon arrival, I was reminded once more of how pivotal chance is in our experience of a place. When I previously visited this village, it was first thing in the morning on a weekday. It was empty. Nothing was open, nor even close to opening. Today, it was a Sunday afternoon. Kids banged away in a play room; the cafés in the walls were booming with the late lunch crowd. The line for artisan gelato wrapped around the internal fortifications. And what could I do? I joined the line. I realized in that moment I hadn’t yet had any ice cream on this trip.
