From Cluny to Le Puy-en-Velay

Note: in March 2022, I used spring break to squeeze in a shorter pilgrimage from the medieval monastic center of Cluny, France to Le Puy-en-Velay, where the Via Podiensis begins. I never posted this account here, but it’s worth sharing given the dearth of available information on this route. No single place, aside from Santiago de Compostela, is more closely associated with the rise of the Camino than Cluny, so it’s a place all pilgrims should consider integrating into their plans.

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I’m usually a planner, thinking and overthinking every part of a trip. This one, though, is an outlier. I assembled GPX tracks and made reservations for beds about a month ago and then never really thought about it again until departure. So, this is a chance for an inveterate planner to live the life of the spontaneous pantser, and to see how the other half lives.

I can certainly see the virtue in not knowing what’s coming next. Climbing out of Cluny, it was exciting to pass beneath the old gate, taking in the walls and their notable distance from the abbey–the first time I really felt the abbey’s former grandeur. With no formal documentation of distances and services, and with sufficient waymarks to generally keep my eyes off my gps, I was shocked when I arrived in Tramayes around half-past ten. This is the end of the first stage in the Cluny guide, so I was almost certain I was somewhere else until I reached the (closed) tourism office. Sometimes, it’s a joy to be proven wrong. A brief walkabout brought me to the imposing old chateau, and that experience of discovery felt more rewarding for the surprise.

The lack of preparation also meant that I was blind to the hilly terrain, but this first section proved to be quite a workout! The ascents never qualified as “steep,” but they were often quite sustained, most notably when leaving Saint-Cécile (before Tramayes) and Ouroux. Fortunately, I love a good uphill, so these qualified as good surprises as well.

The place where my neglect of preparation was felt most keenly was in the realm of services. This was a Monday in France. And France has solved the problem of being tired and grumpy at work on Mondays by simply not working on them. And this led to the great tragedy of the day: I did not encounter a single open bakery. I know, I know–it’s remarkably brave that I continued and that I can write about it so publicly right now. But persevere I did. If I had planned, I would have known, and I would have probably cushioned the blow by shopping more in the Tramayes Carrefour. Instead, I blithely marched onward, assured that I would encounter something in the remaining kilometers. If I had prepared, I also would have been better equipped to navigate through towns along the way. On the busier pilgrimage routes, the official chemin usually winds past the major services, or these are at least signposted. Here, that’s rarely the case. If I had stayed on route in Tramayes, I would have missed all of the services. Despite detouring into Cenves, I had no clue about the “house of cheese” tucked away behind the church. I missed out on bread AND cheese, is what I’m saying.

So, I’m no convert. I’ll gladly return to my planful ways in the future, and I’m double-checking some services in the days ahead, but I know the worst (Monday) is behind me now. And fortunately, everything else about today went just fine, starting with the fact that I slept through the night. I’d hazard that the majority of the day was spent off-road, and there were enough villages along the way to keep things interesting. I met one lone pilgrim, a Burgundian who started a week earlier and was headed to Santiago. That’s one more than I was expecting! The weather was delightful, eventually breaking 60 degrees Fahrenheit with mostly blue skies in the afternoon.

There’s nothing thus far that I’d characterize as spectacular. The church architecture is modest, the two stage destinations I’ve passed (Tramayes and Ouroux) both seemed like nice places to spend the night, and I really enjoyed the extended wooded section after Ouroux, which will continue tomorrow morning. Actually, there’s one thing that seemed pretty spectacular: the Gite de Gros-Bois–a hulking chateau ensconced in the woods just after Ouroux. To keep my stages fairly even, I needed to push on to Monsols today, but I’m definitely missing out on something special there. (And that’s nothing against my CdH in Monsols, which is plenty cozy.)

Anyway, one day down, five to go, and then back to reality. And planning.

—–

First, the most important update: much improved boulangerie luck today! I caught Propières early, slipped into La Cergne mere minutes before its mid-day break, and then had an embarrassment of riches in Charlieu at day’s end.

Beyond that, the walk was as marvelous as it was strenuous. And it was plenty strenuous! The day began with the first genuinely steep ascent of the route, pushing incessantly upward on a rocky road, with trees packed along the sides. Near the top, I encountered the “Source du Saint-Rigaud,” where they say a hermit monk was long ago buried in the water table beneath the spring, giving the water miraculous healing properties. Science might disagree with that logic, but the water was cool and crisp. Finally at the top, I learned I was in a watershed zone, with the run-off heading down one side towards the Atlantic and down the other towards the Mediterranean. I climbed the tower above the hilltop and enjoyed second breakfast. A sharp descent followed, giving back 400m in elevation, before arriving in Propières. This is the ending of the third stage.

The descent continued to a pond and the municipal camping before the day’s second big ascent kicked in, taking those 400m of elevation right back. I emerged from the woods in Les Écharmeaux, a small village with an enviable view back into a valley, and one of the few fountains I’ve encountered as well. (I’m generally reliant on municipal WCs for water.) Back on a dirt track, I encountered the Virgin of Écharmeaux, oddly tucked away on this track, her back turned to the road and staring into the woods. From there, the remainder of the walk to La Cergne followed softly undulating forest tracks, with ample shade on a surprisingly warm morning. La Cergne is where the fourth stage on this route concludes.

It’s also where the woods conclude, and the beginning of the end of this section of hills. Between La Cergne and Charlieu, the route drops another 400+ meters, though there are still a surprising number of jarring ascents mixed in, just to keep you honest. This is the most pavement-heavy section thus far, with much more human habitation along the way. While the terrain was perhaps less interesting, the elimination of trees meant that the world had suddenly opened back up, and I was still high enough for much of the walk to be able to see quite far in all directions. Even still, the large town of Charlieu was hidden from me until shortly before arrival, when it suddenly emerged from hiding behind a well-placed hill.

Charlieu is famous for its abbey, which stands out for the fact that it’s not closed on Monday. Alas, it’s closed on Tuesday, and missing out on the abbey is a loss I’ll feel keenly. Nonetheless, the town is a pleasure to hobble around, filled with half-timbered old buildings and impressive religious architecture. This is where the fifth stage of the Cluny route concludes.

—–

I departed Charlieu quite early, with a long day and a firm deadline, as I needed to arrive in Saint-Jean-Saint-Maurice-sur-Loire before 5pm, lest I lose access to my gite. Fortunately, the day was well set up for dark walking, as the route passed out of Charlieu on a flat, paved cycle track. Truth be told, I almost prefer hitting this kind of section in the dark, as the mind can shut off completely and the lack of diverse scenery becomes a non-issue. I’ve also long had a theory that the body doesn’t register kilometers walked in the dark—they’re basically freebies.

The sun finally rose as I crossed the Loire into Briennon. Near the port was the day’s first open bakery, and I celebrated this with my first chausson de framboise. I’ve given many a chausson du pomme a home, but somehow this was my first framboise. And while it left me well and truly coated in powdered sugar. It won’t be my last. (Indeed, I already stumbled into my second two days later.) Soon after Briennon, I encountered a marvelous sight: the decorated rooftop of the abbey of La Bénisson Dieu. While the Cluny route doesn’t enjoy quite the same wealth of religious architecture as Le Puy, this was a notable highlight. For a while, I fretted that I wouldn’t have the opportunity to admire it from up close, as the route to the abbey itself feels circuitous, and then the entrance to the abbey itself seems blocked on both sides. However, a narrow footpath that slips just between walls to the entrance’s right leads into a lovely grassy area flanked by hills resembling a natural amphitheater. It was the perfect spot to take in the colorful rooftop.

After a long, lightly-inhabited stretch, the afternoon passed through one town after another—Renaison, Chapelle Saint-Roch (it wouldn’t be a pilgrim road through France without at least one of these), Saint-André-d’Apchon, Saint-Alban-les-Eaux, and Lentigny. It didn’t pass through the nearby village of Ouches, but I was already there.

I glanced at the gps. I was within a kilometer of my destination and the clock had just passed 4:15pm. A relief. I couldn’t yet spot my destination, until… oh my goodness. The village of Hontanas on the Camino Francés is justly celebrated for its sudden manifestation, breaking through the flat meseta like a mirage on a hot day. Saint-Jean-Saint-Maurice-sur-Loire takes that to a whole ‘nother level. With no warning, you emerge on a footpath that suddenly reveals the Loire River, gorging wide to appear more like a lake in the gap between hills far below. And then, just ahead, is a castle tower, holding a commanding view of the remarkable scene. It’s a true take-your-breath-away kind of moment, made all the more so by the suddenness of the revelation. The gite, housed in an arts center, is just below—a perfect little spot with six beds and a kitchen. I showered, washed clothes, lined them carefully on the heated drying rack in the bathroom, quickly ate the food I ported in from Lentigny, and then had exhaustion overtake me.

——-

I arrived in Montverdun feeling triumphant. This was my shortest walk, and after the previous day’s forced march, I was overjoyed by the relaxed pace that still saw me storming the ramparts around 3pm. It hadn’t been a good food day, but the village of Montverdun was below, and I could stroll down any time. For now, though, I had to see about my castle.

Like Pontremoli on the Via Francigena, I would call the castle home tonight, and I was confident that I would be the only pilgrim in attendance. I crossed into the courtyard, self-assuredly marched to the office, and found it empty. “Bonjour?”, I hollered, but to no avail. I proceeded toward the keep, but my feeble greetings went similarly unanswered. Ah, well. A stack of freshly cleaned sheets and towels, likely dropped off by the launderers, sat on a picnic table outside the office, so someone would be by soon enough. I flopped onto a section of shady grass and fell into repose. 3pm became 4pm. I watched the line of shade creep across the yard, each minute reducing already fleeting hopes of dried clothes. While I’d normally want to wait until fully processed, I decided that since I had a reservation, it wouldn’t hurt to change and wash my clothes, which I proceeded to do. 4pm became 4:30pm. Still no signs of life, outside my stomach, which was rumbling. Time to make a quick run into town. I stashed my pack in the office, left my shoes immediately outside the door, and hustled downtown.

I was quick. Five minutes into the village. Three or four minutes in the bakery/épicerie, loading up. Six minutes back up the hill. I crossed through the gate and the laundry was gone! So, too, was the white car that had previously been parked outside. My shoes had been rotated 90 degrees. I repeated my circuit of the castle, now bellowing “bonjour” in every corner, but to no avail. I made one discovery—a single bath mat, the last piece of laundry, left on a railing inside the keep. That was all. Battling off dejection, I noted that the castle closed at 7pm. Someone would have to return. And fortunately, while the gite itself was locked, the kitchen and bathroom were open, so I tossed my yogurt for breakfast in the fridge and hopped in the shower.

Emerging clean and warm always works wonders on one’s attitude, and that was true enough for me on this occasion. I was alone in a castle! It was a beautiful day! I grabbed a plate and a knife from the kitchen and headed back out to the picnic bench, eating dinner and admiring the view. My attitude was only bolstered by the addition of a full stomach. Content, I watched the two castle cats muster the courage to approach, only to see that scuttled by a greater sense of aloofness. I lounged and watched the minutes roll by.

The castle church’s bells tolled 7pm. Still nobody. By 7:15, the sun was setting, and the temperature plunging. My attitude forgot about that shower and full stomach completely. I started pacing, watching cars in the distance and hoping that each would turn in the correct direction. Finally, around 7:30, one, then two, then three cars all pulled up. That was a surprise. Older French men started entering in ones and twos. “Are you with the gite?”, I asked, trying to look as pathetic and cold as possible, though that wasn’t much of a stretch. “No, we are Friends of the Pic,” said the first man as he blithely passed by. “Have you spoken with the madam?”, asked the second man, not even pausing to hear me say no. Only the fourth man took some concern in my condition, switching over to English and promising action. He brought a colleague out of the kitchen, where the rest of the Friends were gathered, who phoned the madam. She was surprised to hear that I had made and confirmed a reservation over email, but promised that the president of the organization would come immediately to let me in the gite, and that she would follow later to take care of the formal check-in process. The man who had helped then shuttled me into the kitchen, pulling a chair over next to the heater so that I might thaw out.

As promised, the president arrived soon after, leading me down into the gite, a lovely old hall with cold emanating from the stones. I turned on the heater, lined my soaked clothes immediately in front of it, and then poked around the space. Flipping through the pilgrim book, I was pleased to discover that one thoughtful past pilgrim had written the wifi password at the top of the page. Still worked! I flopped into bed, attending to some delayed communication, while trying to keep myself awake. An hour passed. Another half-hour passed. I gave up on the madam and turned off the lights.

My alarm went off at 5am. I had a demanding day ahead—my longest, distance-wise, and three hours of hiring committee zoom interviews afterward. At least, I thought, I had set myself up with a solid breakfast of yogurt and granola. I walked over to the kitchen. Locked. I started laughing out loud and marched to the exit. Now, this is where the madam’s guidance would have been helpful, as the gates were secured. Easy enough—I found a switch, flipped it, and the left gate glided smoothly open. I stood outside and waited. It did not close. OK, no problem—I walked back inside, hit the switch, and then ran back out. Problem—a motion detector some two feet off the ground was triggered by my passage, causing the gate to revert to an open position. I stared up at the security camera outside the gate, shrugging my shoulders. I walked over to the keycode plate on the wall, wondering if I might be able to close the gate by hitting the #-key, or something of the sort. No dice. I couldn’t just leave the castle open, could I?

And then I knew what I had to do. I walked inside. Hit the switch. Then dropped into a military crawl, worming just under the sensors as the door closed behind me. I rose to my feet as the door slammed shut, shouldered my pack, shot a double-thumbs-up to the security camera, and marched off into the darkness.

————

To this point, I’ve been able to write some very pricy checks and rely on my body to cash them out each time. As a consequence, I’m quite confident about what I can endure. There’s always a paper thin line between confidence and arrogance, though, and I may have crossed it on this trip. I hadn’t worn my pack… at all.. since last summer’s walking. While I get in some miles nearly every day, I did no formal training in advance of this trip. So, as I set out on this, the fifth of six days, I vacillated between two lines of thinking. On the optimistic side, I was already 2/3 of the way done and my body was holding up. Even if things deteriorated, I could push through anything for two days. The pessimist, though, was sounding the alarm about these last two days being the two longest, with some 113km to cover, and all those Zoom interviews in the middle. And honestly, the pessimist was winning. I wondered If I would need to tap out and track down a taxi at some point.

Instead, though, I was blessed on this fifth day with what felt to me like the finest stretch of walking on the Cluny route. That was reinforced, as well, by the continuing gift of perfect weather—all through this trip I had blue skies and highs in the 60s. The mornings were cold, with the thinnest layer of frost glistening atop the fields, but to me that’s a bonus. For all of my failures in preparation, the chemin rose up to compensate.

I somehow flew through the first stage, into Montbrison, which is the closest thing to a full-fledged city on this route. I squeezed into a narrow bar, plopped onto a stool, as locals alternated sips of coffee and alcohol. A dog jumped onto my leg, then paced around, piddling on the floor. The husky-voiced barista was shocked to encounter an American in Montbrison, and then was heartily enthused to learn that I was walking the Compostelle route. She gladly filled my water bottle, though perhaps the kindness of fizzy water was misplaced, given the explosion I got to manage five minutes after departure.

I climbed and climbed some more, first to Marols, and then to Montarcher. The first is a lovely artisan town with a huge scallop shell inlay in the main plaza. The latter is a fortified village perched high in the hills. Somewhere in this stretch, the route breaks 1150m. Even as the day warmed up below, it remained cool at this elevation, reinforced all the more by the shady forest tracks I was following. Only in the final stretch, as I descended to Usson-en-Forez, did the magic of the day erode ever so slightly, and my body started to reconcile what it had experienced. My heels ached. I felt thoroughly drained. And yet, I also felt exhilarated, to have been reminded once again of the miracle of the body and the mind, of what we are capable, of what we can endure.

I plodded over to my chambre d’hote and discovered that an Intermarché supermarket was directly next door. I could have wept with joy.

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Last days, even on a short trip, are always difficult for me. I tend to think less about completion and accomplishment, and more about the loss of something wonderful, a return to the ordinary. I’ve become more of an optimist in many ways over the years, but this is something I’m still working on.

I met this day, though, with determination and confidence; the concerns that had weighed so heavily upon me a day earlier were gone now. It’s not because I was magically healed. On the contrary, I had a full-fledged hobble going through the first couple clicks of this walk. It took my body a while to finally warm up. However, I knew now that I would make it, and that by day’s end I would be back in Le Puy-en-Velay, and what could offer greater incentive than that?

The walk was always going to be hard-pressed to live up to the previous day’s, and I confess that it effectively threw in the towel. The opening stage to Chomelix was pleasant enough, as was the town, but both were unremarkable. And indeed, that was probably the best stretch of walking all day. However, three major highlights carried me home. First, I found the church of Saint-Paulien absolutely remarkable. The massive, barrel-vaulted nave is unlike anything I can remember. I’m sure there are others like it, and maybe I’ve been in a couple, but I marveled at the scale and heavy gracefulness of it. Second, the massive castle at Polignac dominated the horizon throughout the second half of this walk, and lived up to the hype in the final approach. It’s remarkable that this fortress is so close to Le Puy—just five kilometers—and yet so overlooked. If you have a day in Le Puy, consider taking a taxi here and then walking back, following the red and whites.

Third and finally, it was the promise of that first view of Le Puy, arriving back at the beginning for the first time on foot. There’s a certain melancholy that follows the first arrival in Santiago, in Rome, in Jerusalem. You only get that first experience once, after all, and while later returns can be more meaningful, better even, they’re undeniably different. Fortunately, there are always new destinations to walk for. Even more so, though, I find something satisfying in coming upon a starting point, so deeply imbued in meaning given its centrality to that experience, from a different perspective—and even as an end point. My first time walking into Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port is memorable for that reason. It’s like when you’ve been working on two different clusters in a puzzle and they finally come together, and you can see how those two discrete images somehow constitute a larger whole.

Le Puy doesn’t yield its secrets too readily. Indeed, the only clue that registered for much of the final approach was the statue of Notre Dame, just cracking the ridgeline. Even after ascending to that ridge, just a couple of kilometers from arrival, glimpses remained fleeting and fragmented. But then, suddenly, I saw the town center—the statue and the cathedral spires—standing proudly before me. For all that, I was confused, as I had expected that the Needle would be my first sight. Only then did I realize it was immediately before me, in the foreground, just beneath the cathedral. I had never seen it from this angle, never appreciated the ways these sights might align in a different manner.

I zigzagged downhill through a wooded park and then a neighborhood. And then the Needle was directly in front of me, shining majestically in the afternoon light. I circled around and pressed into the city, climbing, climbing, climbing. Only the stairs to the cathedral remained. I staggered upward, relieved and amazed. I crossed the threshold, wrapped around to the entrance, and slid through the side door into the heart of the cathedral, where choral music immediately welcomed me. I dropped into a chair and absorbed the chorus’s song.

———

All told, the route from Cluny to Le Puy spans roughly 300km, though there is a route split towards the end. I followed the western approach; the eastern approach adds 10-20km, I believe. I didn’t want those extra kilometers! Many accommodations open in April, so I only stayed in two gites along the way, complementing those with three CDH and an Airbnb. There are many signposted Accueil Jacquaires as well, and these are listed in the “Orange” guide. It’s a lovely walk that preserves many qualities of the Le Puy route while also feeling different enough to represent a distinct experience. I found this site, and its gpx tracks, to be invaluable.