It’s a dangerous game, labeling a certain portion of a pilgrimage road as less appealing than others. Every time someone complains about the meseta on the Camino Francés, contrary takes come pouring in, with people reveling over the subtle beauty they admired in that section. When pilgrims from Le Puy talk smack about Décazeville, I’m inclined to come busting into that conversation like the Kool-Aid Man through a wall. And when pilgrims bemoan the section of the Norte between Gijón and Avilés… well, actually nobody will speak positively about that stage.
The point, though, is that every section has its advocates, in part because we’re all struck by such different things, and even more because those magic moments on pilgrimage can happen in the most unremarkable of places. Seeds get planted somewhere along the way, but they’re going to sprout on their own damn schedule.
And for all of that, I think most GR-65 adherents would acknowledge that, on the whole, the walk before Cahors outshines the walk after. The terrain is more varied and appealing; the villages are often exceptionally beautiful; the ratio of interesting stuff to kilometers traveled is far more rewarding. As the terrain progressively flattens out after Cahors, certain crops dominate to ever greater degrees, while the distance between larger settlements expands. And, at the same time, the heat asserts a firmer hand.
I was fortunate today that I was blessed with a Camino Primitivo kind of morning, with the fog rolling in overnight and ensconcing everything in a wonderfully cool mist. Every 10 minutes or so, I had to brush the sheen off of my beard, spritzing my arms in the process. That carried me all the way past Manciet to Nogaro; bullfighting rings at the entrance to each marked a cultural shift that is underway, as did the Gateaux Basque that I purchased in the bakery. The switch flipped after my break in Nogaro, though, as the fog evaporated and cloudless blue skies dominated. The heat did not waste any time. And leaving Nogaro, I transitioned out of vineyards and fully into corn country. Corn, corn, corn. Corn, corn, corn. From there, only two small villages, both of which compensate with long names (Lanne-Soubiran and Lelin-Lapujolle) interrupted the ear-fest, the former offering a rest stop outside a gite and the latter a small café. Otherwise, it was 25km from Nogaro to Barcelonne-du-Gers, with a short victory lap finishing the job into Aire-sur-l’Adour.
On the Camino Francés, the least-loved portion of the walk—the meseta, again—comes in the middle. In a lot of ways, this facilitates the Camino’s mythology. The early excitement yields to the barren ascetism of the high plains. It strips aside conceit and forces the pilgrim to tackle that mental journey that often proves so transformational. The meseta doesn’t overstay its usefulness, though, as it eventually rewards the pilgrim with the lovely journey into the Bierzo valley, the climb to O Cebreiro, and Galicia, a place of joyful walking. It’s like a great movie trilogy; the meseta = The Empire Strikes Back.
By contrast, the second half of the Via Podiensis can feel like a sustained denouement, with pilgrims often falling back on memories of earlier stages as they negotiate the new ones. It’s hard to not long for the Aubrac Valley when you’re surrounded by corn. The pilgrims I met today, both of whom started in Cahors, told me that they keep hearing how beautiful the route was before there. They’re both happy; they both are having a great experience. Everything is relative, though, and they can’t help but wonder what they missed.
It hit me today, though, that the Le Puy route is in so many ways like a close relationship. Nothing can ever fully compare to the emotional highs of the early days, of the novelty and adrenaline, the discovery and uncertainty. It’s a rush that can’t possibly be sustained. As time goes by, the relationship shifts, settles into a rhythm, and while the highs still hit at points, there’s a deeper comfort coming from deepening rapport. True intimacy can’t exist in those early moments; it demands the trust and confidence that only comes from having made the journey together, side by side, through the ups and downs. It absolutely can’t exist without the downs.
I’ve been trying to get new shoes for a few days now. I finally determined that, no matter what, Aire-sur-l’Adour would be my spot. The problem, though, was that Sport 2000 is 3km outside of the center. After a long, hot day, the thought of all of those extra kms on steaming asphalt was not a joyful one. I asked the host at my gite if there was a bus, or if he had another suggestion. He whipped out his phone. Before I knew it, Jacques drove over—yes, Jacques—to give me a ride. He then accompanied me into the store and immediately proceeded to the counter to ask the woman to send any and all English-speaking clerks to help sort out the American. I got new shoes. This happened after my previous host in Larressingle had offered to drive me around, and after fellow Facebook group member Gerard offered to swoop in and save me if my shoes crapped out.
I can’t help the independent streak that I carry, the “rugged individualism” we imbibe from the crib in the USA. I try to manage my own way, control what I can control, plan as much as possible. In this case, though, time and again I had to put my trust in the hands of those around me, those devoted to helping pilgrims along the way, and they came through.
Even with the steadiness of trust, comfort, and routine, there is still room for surprise in a relationship of this length. And despite some photos that prepared me for what was ahead, they didn’t do justice to the spectacle that I found in Aire-sur-l’Adour.
Have you ever seen a single picture that made you want to—no, have to—stay in a gite? A couple of years ago, I vividly remember seeing someone post a photo of a pilgrim dinner in Gite des Ursulines. It blew my mind. A huge, medieval-style banquet table set in the midst of a colorful church. How could that be real? Well, I’m here to tell you, it is real, and it’s spectacular.
It took me many kilometers of cornfields to get here, but it was worth it.
