Paris to the Pyrenees: A Skeptic Pilgrim Walks the Way of Saint James by Downie David

Author:Downie, David [Downie, David]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3, mobi
Publisher: Pegasus Books
Published: 2013-04-01T21:00:00+00:00

THE ORIGINAL SEE-FOREVER VIEW

The megalomaniacal President François Mitterrand may have had a few flaws, but he also had good taste. He’d bought the rounded crown of Mont Beuvray, and as we walked past the sylvan site where he’d hoped to be buried, we couldn’t help admiring his chutzpah. On a sloping lawn in a clearing stood a table d’orientation, a table marked with the cardinal points, distances, and a hand-painted panorama. Last time we’d experienced this view from this site, I’d been unaware that I had hepatitis. I had had feverish visions, convinced I was seeing the Pyrenees and that I had to hike over them. It was here that I’d made my vow to change my life and walk across the country. Now I could verify that what I’d actually seen were gentle mountains on the Morvan’s southern edge. There were corkscrew roads and church spires, but no snowy Pyrenees peaks or gloomy Spanish abbey where Charlemagne and Roland battled the Moors.

“I was delirious,” I said. “I was a mess.”

“But you were right to make this happen,” Alison murmured.

Up to now, we’d been following the GR-13 crosscountry hiking route, a section of the trans-European E-4 trail to Spain—one of the many official Ways of Saint James. From here, the trail continued south by southwest. Our maverick way lay instead to the southeast on another trail, GR-131. It ran through Saint-Léger-sous-Beuvray and Autun, then east to the great vineyards of the Côte d’Or and Côte Chalonnaise, before dipping south and reaching Cluny. Though Autun and Cluny had long been pilgrimage sites on the ancient Roman road from Mâcon to Paris, somehow they’d fallen off the main branch of the modern Saint James itinerary. We didn’t care. Like Frank Sinatra, we were doing this walk my way—our way, since Alison had finally gi important stopover or starting point on fa nven the venture her blessing.

“Only another two months to go,” I quipped. “Ready?”

Alison signalled us on. We crossed a trail marking Bibracte’s imaginary southern ramparts, climbed down through a fir forest into pastures, and doubled back north on a fibula-shaped detour to a narrow river valley. Here the ancient Gallic-Roman road paralleled a clear, tuneful stream. So enchanting was the setting that we floated for about four miles in an Iron Age dream and only returned to earth on the edge of sleepy Saint-Léger-sous-Beuvray. A milk-white calf on wobbly legs stared at us, attempting a moo.

“You’ve taken the wrong road,” said Lucie, the elder of two pre-teen farm girls, when we asked her where to find the Hôtel du Morvan. She marched up carrying an old bottle of Cremant de Bourgogne, the region’s answer to champagne. It contained milk. Leaning on the wooden paddock as she spoke, she told us the calf’s name was Alexandre, and suggested we turn around and take the main road into the village. “Alexandre’s mother died while giving birth,” remarked Julie, the other girl. She turned the bottle upside down and slipped it into the calf’s mouth.

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