Draft 1: The corn from corn to corn corned significant corn. The corned corn was a corning corn corn of a corn. And when I corn, let me corn you, the corn corned deep and the corn corned wide and the whole cornstorm and clustercorn was a corning cob.
Draft 2: Once again, overcast skies overpowered the sun for most of the morning, a genuine boon given that highs this week are pushing from the low to mid 30s. It’s not great for photos, but I wanted to eat my cake when highs were in the mid-20s; these days, I’m good with cutting the sweets. Heat anxiety was enough, though, to stir my gite mates just after 5am, capitalizing on our host’s generosity in making the breakfast spread available at such an early hour. (And, I should note, it was one of the most varied spreads thus far, with a chunk of cheese and a hard-boiled egg added to the mix, along with huge baguette slices.) Who was I to complain? Once two were up and shuffling around, I slipped out of bed and up to the table.
The chemin follows roads for a few km out of Aire making this a great morning to depart in darkness. The long stretch that followed—18km of precious little until Miramont-Sensacq—offered another good argument for an early start. Did I say little? On the contrary, there was corn. Kilometer after kilometer of corn, often lining both sides of the dirt tracks and minor paved roads leading the pilgrim onward. Whereas summer’s sluggish start cost me on the sunflower front, it’s lending me a hand here, as the ears aren’t quite above eye level yet, making it still possible to survey the terrain beyond these silent sentinels. (Alas, despite sunny afternoons, the conditions have still not allowed for a view of the Pyrenees, though that will ultimately make the grand reveal all the more dramatic. I can be patient. Sometimes.)
And while it’s easy to dismiss the terrain as “Iowa light,” it definitely has its moments. If rivers fulfilled the aqua quota in the first half of the chemin, lakes and ponds have gained greater prominence of late, and today’s walk was buttressed by short stretches on footpaths around lakes—the Lac du Broussau south of Aire and the Lac d’Arzacq following the eponymous town. And while I certainly would have loved for more, the footpath through the woods leading up and into Pimbo was a delight, as was the coffee I enjoyed while admiring its church’s tympanum from across the plaza.
Like the weather, an air of languorousness permeated much of the walk. Miramont-Sensacq still seemed somnolent when I slipped through. Arzacq-Arraziguet was a ghost town, even at mid-day. The pilgrims I encountered in Louvigny were all slumped on benches, working up the nerve to leave the shade. But hey, it’s warm and a bit humid, so what’s to be gained from unnecessary exertion besides a sweaty back?
I’m spending the night on a farm just outside of Louvigny. There’s a pool and a big grassy yard surrounding it. A family of pilgrims arrived soon after I did, followed after by two parents and a young child. They’re swimming and sunning and lounging; the whole scene is placid and relaxed. Somehow, this is already my last demi-pension in France on this trip. There was supposed to be one more, tomorrow, but stuff happened, so here we are.
This makes me sad, of course, and all the more so because last night’s dinner was one of the best—not necessarily for the food, but certainly the company. The reality is that, as a non-French speaker in the most Frenchy of summer pilgrim cohorts here in years, the majority of my dinners have been spent silently eating while sifting the conversation for brief flashes of comprehension. I don’t begrudge anyone that, incidentally, and I’d actually prefer they enjoy a lively conversation than to have things dragged to a stumble out of a misplaced sense of duty that I should be equally included. This is France! I know what I signed up for. That said, on the occasions when willing English speakers sit near me, I am reminded of how much more sating the conviviality can be than the food.
As someone who gets worn out by sustained socializing, though, part of me is also looking forward to a few nights without the structure imposed by dinners. In most cases, dinner starts around 7pm and it usually lasts until bedtime. It’s an odd rhythm, really—you eat together, immediately go to bed, then wake up and eat together again. In the process, you miss the cool of the evening, the relaxing stroll around town, the sunset.
More than anything, though, it’s an indicator of the end, looming ever closer. Fortunately, I have more walking to do once I reach Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port, so I’m not sprinting immediately to the airport. The GR-65 is special, though, and I only have a few days left with it. I’ll have to take care to enjoy it, corn and all.
