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| Scenes from a moody few days, ghosts and clouds everywhere. |
We
left early, making our way out way at 8 AM. It
drizzled as we meandered. We'd been walking for almost a week. We passed the Grand Hotel Prouhéze,
shuttered by time, skipping over the railroad tracks to join the trail.
The
countryside, of fields and farms still felt warm.
By
9 AM, we’d walked some five k, passing three cows on the side of the road.
Your
brother is about five K behind, two of our friends told us as we walked,
approaching the first town. Will and his
family strolled up as I was making my way into the old churchyard.
“Did
you see the cows there?”
“Yea.”
“The
mother was trying to get them to come back, but they were running the other
way, a regular family romance right there for us all to see.”
I
took in the old church yard of graves from the first war.
Each
cemetery has its imprint of time, the Civil War in the US, the First World War
here, with monuments to enfants killed found throughout the landscape. The name of the owner from the Grand Hotel
was there, leaving me wondering who they were.
Walking
another five k, Will and I talked about the kids and the hike.
Everyone
stopped for another coffee at the next town.
Two
of our friends from trail, one from Bratislava and another from Frankfurt
dropped, stopped by.
We
all started chatting about the cemetery in the previous town. They were not so moved.
“Then
what is your favorite cemetery?” I asked.
“What
a great question.”
“The
cemetery in Paris.”
“The
one with Jim Morrison or the one with Jean Paul Sartre?”
“The
one with Jim Morrison.”
“Tell
me about the grave yard in Bratislava.”
He
smiled and told me. I love Cemeteries, the Jewish Cemetery in Prague, Glasnevin
in Dublin, Paris, and Sleepy Hollow are my favorites.
Caroline
and the man from Frankfurt talked about their parents, the war, and the ways
history continues to impact us.
“Where
was your mom from?”
“Dresden. She went through countless bombings before
she moved to the US.”
“My
Dad’s father was captured by the Russians in 1945, not getting out until
1950. And then my dad was impacted by
that in more ways than I can describe.”
“My
mom spent the rest of her life making sense of what happened there. And that impacted me.”
“Hopefully
we can learn from some of this.”
“If
she had been around to see Trump it would have made her crazy.”
“A lot of our generation have no consciousness
of this history.”
“Well
it reminds me why we need to study and focus on peace,” I chimed in.
Somehow
the conversation meandered back to Kundera and post war cinema which so much
impacts that.
“Kundera
wrote the original novel in French after he moved to France in 1868,” noted our
friend.
“I
read it in French, Czech and then English.
That was hard.”
“How
was the translation?”
“Its
mostly a Czech book so it was good.”
So
we talked about engagement, taking the weight of history on our shoulders and
wished our friends the best.
A
trip to Bratislava may be in store, I thought to myself, later mentioning the
idea to Caroline who agreed, suggesting we get off the road a few days earlier
to we can make it happen.
Walking
back, Caroline chatted about our days on the trail and the fun of making it
through these adventures together through the years. Memories of Vienna from a
quarter century ago passed through my mind.
The
kids were walking with us.
Number
one and Caroline took a break.
Number
two and I walked with Will and cousins another five.
Finding
our way to a coffee shop. Will ordered
three glasses of wine, the waitress smoking a cigarette as she poured. We ate cheese the farmer had given us the
first day and enjoyed the wine. A couple
of ducks walked by, starting to fight, as more pilgrims joined us.
One
of Will’s friends sat with us, snapping a few shots.
“You
have a little Patty in you,” he smiled, telling me about his days at the London
School of Economics.
We
chatting about the Brexit and the middle ages as more people poured in. We made our way back onto the road, making
our way through the fields, past cow after cow on the final five k to Les
Gentianes, in a Gite, overlooking a field.
The kids played outside most of the afternoon before we al enjoyed a
quiet pilgrim meal.
The
next day, we walked through a fog. It
was mostly drizzling as we made our way out, through little towns, 19 k to La Colonie, Maison d'hôtes à Aubrac, France.
Again the landscape felt like Ireland as we meandered past
the fields, stopping at a country inn out of time, enjoying a picnic lunch
overlooking the fields. It was too
chilly to picnic for long. After lunch the fog rolled through enveloping us on
the way. It was like the Tess of the D'urbervilles, otherworldly fog enveloping
us as we meandered, past leaning, stretching trees winding their way into the
sky. Arriving in Aubrec, we just sat outside, enjoying a pint by an old WWI
memorial. The kids played guitars. We
related tales from the day. The little one fell in a pile of cowpoop but didn’t
seem too worried about it.
And we slept in La Colonie, Maison d'hôtes à Aubrac, a space
Caroline found in the guide book. Its “a genuinely unique and wonderful place,” she wrote on FB.
The non-descript outside masked a secret house
full of treasures from swap meats, markets, books, movie posters, old books,
art, and black and white photos.
The kids stayed inside and ate with their cousins.
Caroline and I made our way back to the
restaurant next door for a quiet pilgrim menu, chatting with one of the men
we’d met the day before, talking about travels, family, Europe, etc.
The Camino brings out all the good and bad in
all us, our pain and our hopes, our frustrations, and our limitations. We left our beloved La Colonie the next morning, making our way through the
morning dew. It was supposed to be a
longer day. The first eight k were quiet
and fun. But by midday, moods
descended. It was going to be a long one
and we were not going very fast. And it
kept going and going and going, up and around, countless ascents, descents,
moods elevating descending along with the road.
Walking through a hamlet down the way. And old man with lung disease had organized a
rest stop, with coffee and orange juice.
A few cats sat in the refters, an old plow outside the farm house. A few
swiss pilgrims sat drinking coffee.
“We like your pin,” one of the men smiled at number one’s
“Fuck Trump” pin.
“We apologize. We
voted with the majority.”
“Don’t. Its not you.”
“But we have to.”
So we talked about Europe and the US, politics, etc. They
told me about Louie Dalles, the French man who went to Buchenwald.
“Look at the old man with lung problems who runs this
place. That’s what this is all
about. He’s still out there, sharing. That’s
what this is all about...”
“So many great people along the way.”
“Don’t worry about Trump,” one man smiled as we left.
During the afternoon, I listened to the Revolutions podcast,
John Cromwell, the English and the French revolutions. The question remains if our revolution was a
success.
Its July 4th today, the idea of the US Revolution
still resonates. But here in Europe they
describe our system as an oligarchy, not a democracy. We don’t have one person,
one vote. We have a system that favors
the minority in less populated states, giving them the equivalent of four New
York votes for every one of theirs in national elections.
Walking, took a final rest in a field, sitting rubbing our
feet, reading “Alone” by Edgar Allen Poe.
None of the kids really felt like walking any further. The hot sun finally enveloping us. It was three PM and we had another eight k to
go.
“Lets get a cab,” asked the little one.
“There are no cabs.”
“My pack hurts.”
So we emptied out part of her bag.
“My feet hurt.”
So Caroline rubbed them.
And I real a poem. No
one wanted to listen. So I read it to myself.
“Alone”
From childhood’s hour I have not been
As others were—I have not seen
As others saw—I could not bring
My passions from a common spring—
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow—I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone—
And all I lov’d—I lov’d
alone—
Then—in my childhood—in the
dawn
Of a most stormy life—was drawn
From ev’ry depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still—
From the torrent, or the fountain—
From the red cliff of the mountain—
From the sun that ’round me roll’d
In its autumn tint of gold—
From the lightning in the sky
As it pass’d me flying by—
From the thunder, and the storm—
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view—
Throughout the afternoon, we meandered through the woods and fields
for our final eight K and got to Saint-Come d’Oit and hit
the pool. It was a day for the ages, all our bodies ached. July 4th,
we’d rest.
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Finally made it after a day that seemed to take forever. The friends along the road were many.    |
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