Today was part two of my longest two-day stretch in France this summer. It’s a funny thing, but I’ve come to find the longest days to be some of the easiest to manage. Shorter days carry all kinds of expectations. Maybe I’m hoping to arrive early—to rest, or to have time to see some things in town, or to run some errands—in which case there’s a clock always ticking in the back of my mind. Maybe there’s something I’m hoping to see in the middle of the walk. Given the array of mid-day closures here, that might also propel me forward with some concern about timing.
When I know going in, though, that the day will be walking and little more, it’s oddly liberating. No thinking is required. Thinking, indeed, is almost detrimental. Thinking is one of the reasons that short days can be oddly challenging; once the mind has let its guard down, anticipating arrival three steps after departure, all the boogeymen come charging in. Today, though, it was just the trail and me. Nothing more to it than that.
Now, the walking itself isn’t a genuine highlight in this section. Far too much of this stretch of the chemin is footpaths hacked out of the margin of farmers’ fields, just a meter away from paved roads and (generally light) car traffic. The footpaths are certainly a credit to local efforts to improve the safety of the experience for walkers (and drivers), Every time I’m back here, it seems like even more footpaths have popped up, further freeing walkers from asphalt. It’s just that a footpath next to a road lacks the same charm as one more isolated. I’ve also had to bid farewell to my beloved hills. I earned a last, bonus ascent by taking the high-level variant above the canal after Moissac and enjoyed it thoroughly—aside from the complete soaking of my shoes—as it got me genuinely off-road for a longer stretch. The canal can be polarizing; some find it utterly relaxing, while others find that walk from Moissac to be tedious. I’m somewhere in the middle, so the high-level variant offers a good balance, providing a solid chunk of canal time and enough change in the middle to keep me interested.
All of that said, there are some things I absolutely love about this section. For one, today continued a process started yesterday that saw a transition into fruit country, with huge orchards lining the chemin and testing each pilgrim’s ethical principles. Because these trees are laden to bursting with ripe, tempting stone fruits. One small stand offered apricots for donations while another had cherry tarts and coffee available for a euro, and that struck me as a wise way of negotiating with potential terrorists.
For another, this is a stretch where frequent towns dot the itinerary, bringing a neat mix of interruptions to the orchards and wheat/sunflower fields. Several towns sit above the canal; I was grateful to Malause for providing me coffee and a delicious croissant with almond paste. Auvillar is always a delight and the morning light brought out the sparkle in the bricks. It wasn’t quite as lively as the last time I was here—after all, we watched France win the World Cup that night, and then listened to fireworks and cars honking for hours after—but I just caught it too early.
After Auvillar, the parade of towns picks up—Saint-Antoine and its compact old town (though, alas, the church was locked and the café still closed), the chateau tower of Flamarens shining resplendently in the bright sunshine, the same bright lights illuminating the stained glass at Miradoux’s impressive Gothic church, and then typically mellow Castet-Arrouy transformed into a Saturday afternoon party, with seemingly every villager back in town for the occasion.
And then the final, meandering, befuddling, infuriating approach to Lectoure, its simple but attractive tower looming above the church and dominating the horizon for miles. On this Saturday night, the locals were once again out in force, strolling up and down the main street, popping in at nearly every café and patisserie, and marveling at the views. The other transition in effect is the one towards larger Gothic churches and it sneaks up on the walker. So accustomed to the squattier, homier Romanesque that mark the early chemin, the heartbeat isn’t prepared for such open, such uplifting environments, where it almost seems as if the oxygen is thinner, like you’ve suddenly transitioned into a higher-altitude environment. While I think I prefer Romanesque on a day-to-day basis, Gothic in occasional bursts is always exhilarating.
