Not to Santiago - Fragment first voyage

Fragment: From the first Voyage: Bouillon to Nolay

The evening falls quietly. No wind, no thunderstorm. Warm.

I now know how to get hold of bread. Just be in a village when you hear a horn sound in the street or just stop the baker on the road. Normal groceries remain a problem. There are enough villages but not enough people in northern France to keep the shops open and provide a decent income. I'm starting to get low on food again and, according to the chap I was talking to yesterday evening, there must be something in Tarsul or Saussy.

I am setting out on a long walk. Tarsul is a nice village but has no supplies. There is a lot of water and in the past the village must have had a lot of industry. There were mills and a smithy. The street names point to an illustrious past. Now it is just a nice village. The school buses that leave as I arrive indicate that there is nothing in the village. If there is a school, there are usually shops as well. The children leave the bus instead of boarding it.

I continue along the asphalt road and down a steep hill to a more or less isolated valley and the village of Vernot. The village is actually no more that a crossroads around which some houses are grouped, but at the crossroads is a church, the Mairie and the lavoir. The door of the lavoir is open and I sit down. Shoes off, socks off. Rest. There is nobody about. That is why places like these are so good on a pilgrimage like mine. It's not the house of God which interests me, it is the peacefulness of this secular meeting point, domestic implement and water source that I am struck by. The baker comes along and I buy a baguette, croissants and some pastry. We chat for a bit and I tell him where I come from and what I'm doing. In the quiet of the lavoir I eat my early lunch; it is just ten thirty. I do not feel inclined to leave and the break becomes a long one. It is a pleasant place. Then I get going. Had I known what lay ahead I would probably have looked for a camping place.

Now I am on my way and I have to keep going.

Principle.

I can't walk back, I don't walk back.

The track enters a forest and starts to climb. It is not that far but it continues to climb and it is pretty steep. The last bit is all hair-pin bends. At least fifty to seventy-five metres. Not that bad, but it is hot. Do I need to say this? The sweat pours down my body in rivulets. At the top I rest before continuing. The path has come out on to a marvellous view of hills and a placard. It is a nature conservation area but there was no indication of that where I came from. Apparently they have one-way nature conservation areas here. Passing the cemetery, I enter Saussy. I am at 554 metres altitude and Vernot was around 300 metres. 250 metres in one short burst. It was a steep climb. I am shattered.

Then the disappointment. No épicerie in Saussy. Absolutely nothing in Saussy. There was a shop. A worn-out sign is still there. I am a year too late. An inhabitant says there is an épicerie in Messigny-et-Vantoux. That is 10 kilometres down the road, five kilometres from Dijon, where I do not want to go. It is afternoon and I actually don't want to go anywhere. I opt for the emergency scenario and decide to hitchhike to Messigny. It works but there is no épicerie there either. It is a nuisance because I do not want to go into Dijon. I promised myself I would avoid big cities on my journey. So I hitch a lift back and fortunately can combine this with looking for a camp site. I end up on a camp site just outside Darois. Effectively I've skipped 10 kilometres of the route. I'll have to find a grocery tomorrow. I still have some emergency rations. The camp site is in a pine forest so I first have to clear away the pine cones. I can't find a level spot. Later that night there is group of noisy French people who stay noisy for a long time. I am not amused. A bad end to a beautiful walking day.

It is already warm when I get up. I walk two kilometres back to the route and take a lift to Pasques to get from there to Fleury-sur-Ouche where there is no shop and no camp site. So I hitch to Velars-sur-Ouche where there is a shop, even a supermarket, but no camping. This village is ideally situated for a camp site. It is on the GR7, it has all the facilities and it is just before a pretty heavy stage via Notre Dame d'Etang to Chamboeuf. But apparently nobody ever thought of it. Or perhaps it's quite rare for someone to be walking on the GR7.

I do my shopping and check for the nearest camp site. Sainte-Marie-sur-Ouche. Ten kilometres down the road. I start hitching again in the boiling heat of the afternoon. While I'm standing at the roadside, an elderly man arrives. I put him at well over sixty, with a long grey beard and a backpack. Real pilgrims have long grey beards. He's a German who really is on a pilgrimage to Santiago. We talk for a while and then he's off again, even though shortly before he has had big problems with the heat and his water supply. He has just had to spend two days in Dijon recovering. He doesn't walk with a book or a map. He has no idea where the villages or watering points are. He sleeps under the stars whenever possible. In Germany they have books about the pilgrimage: but you just wouldn't want to be reading them. No maps, no advice. Just go, they say. And they do. It is really [pre-] medieval. The GR7 is presented as a pilgrims' way. How is that possible? It is just a public footpath from the Vosges to the Pyrenees, established by the FFRP shortly after the war. You can call any route a pilgrims' route. It is ridiculous, this pilgrim madness. I tell him it is going to be very hot and wish him luck. Bonne route. He returns the greeting and continues on his way.

All my lifts today and yesterday have talked about the violence on the street and ask if I've noticed that. No, I've not. But it is a sign of the region. Something is changing. The kind attitude, the almost carefree spirit of the North seems to be disappearing. People are becoming more cautious. Not less kind but more reserved.

I get my lift to Sainte-Marie-sur-Ouche and pitch my tent in the killing heat, under the watchful eye of the Burgundian Madonna on the church, in a field where all the grass has already burnt.

It is dry. Dry as a bone.

Since I left Sedan on the 25th of May it has not rained and it has been blisteringly hot. The ground is scorched dry. Crops don't grow any more. The rest of the day I do nothing. It is the longest day. It is Sunday. It is also the hottest day so far: 36 degrees in the shade. I am shattered. I take a day off.

I skip Sunday and spend it looking at the Burgundy canal and some big flat boats with Americans who try to push open a lock by brute force. Then I'm walking again. After three kilometres along the Burgundy canal I take a track that rises to the GR7 which I pick up again in Chamboeuf. Now it's starting to look like Burgundy because here I see the first vineyards. There is also a beautiful sign for the GR7 and for the first time I am sorry that I don't have a camera with me. Buildings and monuments you can find in books if you need a picture. You can't find this sign. It is part of the route. Maybe if I return to France sometime.

I reach Chamboeuf. It is early but I think I've done enough. If it's going to be as hot as yesterday, I should stop in good time. The camp site is under construction and not expensive. The owner buys bread for me. I have a very quiet afternoon. It is hot but not as hot as yesterday. The woman at the campsite asks me for my pilgrim's book so she can stamp it. I don't have one, but it seems clear that other people on the way to Santiago come this way. The German was probably not the only one and my thoughts in Velars-sur-Ouche about a camp site were right.

I rise early. I walk fast. Via Etang-Vergy to get to the épicerie. There is also a café attached to a bakery. I buy croissants and a big black coffee. It tastes good in the early morning. It is eight thirty and I've already been walking for two hours. I press on. An hour later it is very warm and when I have to climb a hill, I'm pouring with sweat. The water needs to evaporate so that I can cool down. But it doesn't. I just lose moisture and sweat like hell. Things can't go on like this. I can't keep on getting up earlier every day just to stop earlier. I can hardly make a reasonable distance. Because of the heat I'm not sleeping well. I have to stop until the heat is over. I have to stop in a small town with enough supplies.

I stop in Chevannes. In the middle of the wine region, between the vintages, just west of Nuits-Saint-Georges. I think it is a nice village. It didn't register. I walk to the outskirts of the village and start hitchhiking to Nolay through an otherwise beautiful piece of France. But which bit of France around here isn't lovely? It is difficult. Sometimes I have to wait for hours. Through Bruant, Bligny-sur-Ouche and Montceau-et-Echarnant. The road looks impressively broad on the map but not a soul passes by. I can't get a lift from the last village.

Four men from the area drive by constantly, grinning and gesturing with their hands to indicate that they have to turn off left or right, rather than going the way that I need to go. I never see them return so they probably do take a left or right turn, only to come past again fifteen minutes later to tell me they can't give me a lift because they are turning left or right. This goes on for about three hours. This is how they drove the Germans crazy during the war. At a house where nobody is home I take the garden hose and pour water over my head and around seven, when it gets a bit cooler, I start walking again. Nobody comes driving up behind me to signal that they have to go left or right. I am disappointed.

I walk to Ivry-en-Montagne and from there I get a lift to Nolay. The camping is € 7,75; it's expensive in France for my kind of camping, but I have a place. I can wait out the heat. I won't go on unless the temperature drops below 30 degrees. It is 24th June.

In the fields the combines are harvesting. I am surprised. It is much too early, so the harvest must have failed. It is too dry and the crop is exhausted. They can forget about a second cut. Bread is going to be expensive next year.

I visit Beaune and write a short e-mail about the heat. I go to the Hôtel-Dieu in Beaune. What a name for a hospital! Really God's own country! We can't do anything for you; you just have to trust God here. The Last Judgement by Roger van der Weyden is dazzling. What detail! What colour! And how arrogant of the people who commissioned the painting to have themselves depicted in paradise! There is a long lavoir beside the river. Further on is the town where mostly elderly tourists come on coach tours. And there's nothing special about it. Though, yes, the Hôtel-Dieu was beautiful.

The bus route to and from Nolay goes through the great Burgundy wine region. It's a lovely drive. But that is all.

I do my time in Nolay. The village itself is nice but not big. It is too hot. Every day it is about 35 degrees and it just goes on. Then on 30th June it breaks and it starts to rain. It gets a bit cooler. Below 30 degrees anyway. I start walking again. I am sick of the heat and doing nothing.

I have to go. To Cluny.

It is July 1st.

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