Part 2 of 4: 2015 – Beaune to

Street art near Beaune: I’ll betcha it’s a comment on hollowness of bourgeois life

Wednesday, September 9/15 − Beaune to Le Puy

We woke up, packed our stuff, and then ate the hotel’s croissant and coffee breakfast while chatting with the Christian Coloradans. Today is market day in Beaune, so we walked over and checked it out: lots of cheeses, truffles, middle-eastern guys selling honking big olives, and various knick-knack booths. As expected, Anne bought a bunch of stuff (a knife, olives, napkins). I went booth to booth tasting free samples of cheese and sausage. Who needs breakfast?

I also tasted truffle for the first time in my life. One of the booths allowed you to sample their truffle products: oils, butters, spreads, etc. I’m hooked. There were lots of geriatric British tourists. The average age was about 80. You could smell the arthritis. I felt like a child. After that, we motored out of Beaune.

Truffles galore at the Beaune market − one of those nuggets on the left costs 50E

We took the A6, the three-lane toll highway, to make distance, driving rapidly through Lyon and heading for Le Puy. On the way, we got off the highway and onto the back roads. At a particularly nice place in the Loire Gorge, we stopped, wandered about for awhile – for some reason there were cops everywhere – and had a picnic. We were right on the river, which had a thick layer of olive-green bacteria on it. However, the murky water didn’t seem to bother the fisherman fishing along the bank next to us. After that we drove the winding, one-lane highway to Le Puy.

Picnicking by the Loire

Le Puy – the name means “extinct volcano − is an important stop on the French Camino. It was also a much bigger town than we expected, and our first impression was that it was very scuzzy. We saw lots of down-and-out guys sitting about drinking in the alleys. At first, Anne hated the place. We did our wander about looking for hotels. We ended up walking miles, checking out about seven hotels, all of which were full. We almost took one room, which was cheap and near the old town, but it was just a bit too scuzzy for Anne’s tastes, so she rejected it. If I’d been by myself, I wouldn’t have hesitated. When I’m travelling, I feel it’s more important to have any place at all than to have a nice place.

At one of the hotels we checked out, the St. Jacque (three stars), the smirking, arrogant concierge wouldn’t even let us look at the room. We had to take it sight unseen. This was a first. I asked why. He said: “C‘est la politique de l’hotel” (It’s the hotel’s policy). He was smirking all the time and dangling the key in front of my face, like a dog treat. I refused to take it sight unseen (“Ce n’est pas possible,” I replied, indignantly, with my best Burnaby accent).

So we kept on looking. After a few more tries and no luck, we caved and came back to the St. Jacque to take it sight unseen. Anne went in by herself. I didn’t want to talk to him, so I waited on a park bench outside. She came out a few minutes later saying that he refused to rent it to her, because she had asked if smoking was allowed. When she said that, he hung up the room key and said: “We don’t rent to smokers” – which, in effect, means he doesn’t rent to French people.

Still homeless, we decided to press reset and go have a beer. The worst case was that we would have to sleep in the car, which is do-able. We went to a nice outdoor bar in front of the tourist bureau and, while sipping our beers, told the motherly (yet chic) waitress about our situation. She mentioned that there was a Gite, a pilgrim hostel, nearby, and went into the bar to phone to see if there were any rooms. There were, so we gave her a big tip (technically you’re not supposed to tip in France) and walked over to check it out.

The Gite du Capucins is a clean, very-well maintained, modern place, so we took two single beds in an eight-bedroom dorm and ended up having the full dorm to ourselves − all this plus breakfast for 25E a piece. After settling in, we went out for dinner and had salad. Both of us were very tired, so we packed it in early and went to bed.

Thursday, September 10/15 − Le Puy-en-Velay

View of Le Puy from the Camino. Anne walked up and climbed into the Virgin Mary’s crown

We got up fairly early again, showered, and loaded everything into the car. We weren’t sure whether we were going to spend another night there. We arranged to park our car there for the day (5E). A young British fellow at the desk, who was staying in Le Puy to learn French, was extremely helpful. It was great to be able to speak English to someone.

The Via Podensis: It begins at Le Puy and ends at St. Jean-Pied-de-Port (1600 km)

After that, we had the Gite’s included breakfast (juice, croissant, yoghurt, coffee − it was just fine), and then headed off to walk the Camino. We walked out of the building, turned left twice, and we were immediately on the French Camino – the path is called the GR65 in France. There were actual pilgrims with backpacks walking in front of us. This immediately brought me fond memories of last summer’s pilgrimage in Spain.

Quasi-pilgrim, Anne, and other pilgrims walking the Camino from Le Puy.

We walked about 15k, as far as St-Christophe-sur-Dolaizon, meeting many Pilgrims. For example, there was a group of five ladies from New Brunswick who that day were starting the long, three month trek to Santiago. Two of them didn’t look like they were going to last very long.

The French Camino's direction protocol − in Spain, they use yellow arrows.

On the way back, we were having a debate about French usage, so Anne asked a French couple coming towards us whether you say “J’ai attendu” (I’m waiting) or “Je suis attendu.” According to them, you can say both. The couple actually acted it out. He stepped back to give himself space for his demonstration, looked into Anne’s eyes and said: “J’ai attendu Claire.” (I’m waiting for Claire). At that moment, as if to clear up any confusion I might have, Claire turned to me and explained: “Je suis Claire.”

Back on the Camino again: same shoes, same hat, same bag even − different country

When we got back, we had lunch at the Gite, and then we headed off to explore the town. We both especially wanted to check out the Cathedral Notre Dame, a Romanesque cathedral on top of a Puy. It turned out to be magnificent, full of really cool art, and there’s a very high-end Camino hostel that adjoins it, so you can sleep there if you want to. The church also has a spectacular staircase that descends into the city.1

1 In Medieval times, Le Puy’s cathedral was designated as one of the four French departure sites for the Camino (Vezelay, Arles, and Tours are the others). In those days, this path was called the Via Podensis, now it's called the GR65. It was inaugurated in 950/1 AD by Godescalc, the bishop of Le Puy, who set off for Santiago from here, thereby becoming the first non-Hispanic to do the pilgrimage.

The descent into town from the Cathedral.

Anne and I went our separate ways at the Cathedral. She decided to walk up to the statue of the Virgin Mary, which was built in 1860 from melted cannons captured during the Crimean war. According to Anne, there was a great view of the area from her crown.2

2 Le Puy is built around three lava pinnacles. The cathedral is at the top of the largest one, the statue of the Virgin is at the top of the highest one, and a chapel tops the steepest one.

Anne climbed up into the statue. As usual, I was too lazy.

As usual, I was lazy and wanted to just stroll about and people watch, no more big hills. The town has a renaissance fair in mid-September where, we were told, everyone (and I mean everyone – shopkeepers, waitresses, street-cleaners) dresses up in period costume. The town is, also, famous for its lentils because they thrive in its rich volcanic soil. They have even been given an AOC label to protect them. One of the many boutiques I saw only sold lentils or things made out of lentils. I think they sold a cell- phone that was completely made from lentils (an L-phone).

Costume for sale or rent for Le Puy’s upcoming Renaissance fair. After our respective walkabouts, we met up at the same tourist-bureau bar and had a couple of beers, and then went out for dinner. During dinner, we sat beside a group of middle-aged Scots who were setting off on the Robert Louis Stevenson Travels with a Donkey path, which starts at Le Puy and heads south3. Anne asked one of them if he had rented a donkey for the trip. He replied, “No. I brought my wife instead.” Evidently, feminism still has a of work to do in Scotland.

In every town I’ve been so far, I always check out the real estate prices. So far, the best deals are in Le Puy.

Hmm. You can get a one-acre farm and renovated farm-house near Le Puy for 220k Canadian.

Friday, September 11/15 – Le Puy to Figeac

We got up early and had breakfast again at the Gite. Had a long chat with a portly, 60-ish British intellectual with a House-of-Lords accent who advised us to visit (“spectacular setting”) and then Albi (“awe-inspiring cathedral”) if we get the chance. We liked what we heard so we decided to head for Rocamadour.

3 It tells about Stevenson's 12-day, 120-mile hike in 1878 through the Cévennes mountains in southern France with his stubborn but endearing donkey, Modestine. It’s actually an inter-species (Platonic) love story.

For some reason, Anne decided to impede the lead cow. Everything halted until the cowherd screamed at her.

At one small town (Pinols), a farmer was herding cows through the town. For some reason, Anne decided to stop directly in front of the lead cow, stopping them all for until the farmer screamed at her.

With Anne out of the way, the French cows make their way through Pinols. We bought bread at the city hall. At another place further up the road we bought Cantal cheese (I believe we were in the Cantal Department, so it was appropriate). Before we came to France, I read Adam Gopnik’s great book Paris to the Moon, wherein he claimed that Cantal, named after Auvergne’s Cantal Mountains, the was the world’s best cheese. I was relishing the opportunity to try it. Now that I have, I agree with him − though Armstrong’s Old Cheddar is a strong second.

Cantal: World's best cheese. Armstrong’s Old Cheddar is a strong second.

We drove through St. Flour, which is quite a spectacular town, but we didn’t bother to stop and check it out. We’re jaded now. Just after this, we drove past a dog lying by the side of the road. It rushed out barking at the car. I swerved and just missed it. That could have been a massive drag, especially for the dog. Back road driving is very beautiful, but it is stressful. You can’t take your eyes of the road for a second.

We stopped at a Carrefour, which is sort of a French Safeway, but with 246 varieties of cheese and 517 types of wine, and loaded up with really good picnic stuff (paté, sausage, cucumber, a fresh baguette, wine). I even bought a bottle of Ricard’s Pastis de Marseille, a great aperitif that I had became fond of on a previous trip to France. It tastes like Pernod and also gets milky when you add water to it.

With this bounty, we decide to stop and have lunch at little town called Roffiac, where we spotted a picnic table near a stately chateau on the La Naute River. It was picturesque to the max. After that we went for a short walk along the river. While strolling, we found some abandoned flat, shale roof tiles, so I took one to use as a cutting board. [It made it all the way back to Vancouver with us.]

A short walk in Roffiac: In the distance the chateau’s tower. On the middle-right are the abandoned shale roof tiles

After that, we drove some more back roads through the beautiful hilly country. For our next break, we stopped at a town called Thiezac, another of the innumerable picturesque towns in France. As with all small French towns at 3PM, the streets were completely deserted. No stores were open either, so we couldn’t get a coffee. As usual, we checked out the local church, and I took pictures of the war memorial plaque. Every French town honours its war dead, and there are lots of war dead because the French have been in a lot of wars. I’ve seen memorials for the Napoleonic Wars, the Franco-Prussian war, WWI and WWII, the Vietnam War, and the Algerian war. They always include a list of names of the local people (mostly young people) who died in the war. It’s depressing and touching at the same time.

Plaque commemorating Thiezac's WWII dead, Note the little add-on plaque for those killed in North Africa in the 50s and 60s.

After this, we decided to head directly to Figeac. The names of almost all of the towns around here end with ac, e.g. , Cuzac, Sonnac, and Naussac. Figeac looked like a good place to stop because it didn’t seem so touristy. Based on a review in the Lonely Planet, we decided to stay at the Hotel de Bains, so called because it was once a public bath house. We drove into town, turned left, and there it was by the river; turned left again, found parking immediately, and then booked probably the nicest hotel room I’ve ever had.

The balcony overlooks the Célé River. I throw bread to the ducks below. They look up at me expectantly. We celebrate by drinking pastis and then, tipsily, walking across the bridge into town to find a perfect bar to have beers. All is good in France.

The view (plus pastis) from our balcony at the Hotel de Bains in Figeac. The expectant ducks are directly below, out of sight.

With a bit of effort (plus pastis), I was able to get all my ducks in row.

We wandered through the narrow medieval streets, filled with upscale boutiques and cheese shops and immediately found the town’s main drinking square. We’re good at this. It was a beautiful late September afternoon and the place was packed with stylish people enjoying Happy Hour (L’heure Heureux?). We started chatting with three generations of an upper-middle-class family from England. They had bought a place in the area, which they visited regularly – in effect, they have a cabin in France. We also chatted with a woman from Toronto who married a guy from this region and raised their four kids here. She told me that she didn’t know very many people in town, even though she’d lived here for 20 years. After many beers – and no dinner, just the olives and potato chips the bar served – it was back to the room for more pastis and then to bed. My ducks were waiting for me when I got back.

This Figeac hotel is easily the best place we stayed at in France.

Saturday, September 12/15 − Figeac

Some contestants at the Figeac agricultural fair.

We got up at 8:30 and I had a very slow shower and shave. For some reason, I had a hangover. We had coffee on the Hotel’s terasse, and then went into town to check out the market. We’ve lucked out because it is market day in Figeac. They are also having some sort of agricultural fair at an open area just across the river from our hotel. The place is full of huge but docile cattle, and middle-aged French farmers who are walking around and closely inspecting them.

Market day at Figeac Anne and I have different goals when we walk around a town (she likes to shop, I like to people watch), so we chose to go our separate ways and meet back at the hotel at lunch-time. We’ve also decided to spend an extra day in Figeac because we like it so much, especially our hotel. I wandered the market for quite awhile, marvelling at the quality of the vegetables (this is very middle-aged behaviour).

At the Figeac market: Look at the size of that cabbage! It’s voluptuous.

After lunch, we decided to go for a walk in the country-side around the town. Basically, it was straight up a hill, quite a hill, and then straight back down. On the way back we ate fruit that was growing on the side of the road (grapes and figs). We also bought a plate (for our picnicking) and some grapefruit juice at a Carrefour.

Wandering through the country-side around Figeac

At the Carrefour checkout, Anne changed her mind and decided not to buy some stuff. Initially, she was just going to leave it on a counter nearby, but the cashier stared at her for quite awhile to shame her into putting it back where she got it. It worked. It's this cultural behaviour − doing things properly and browbeating those who are not – that makes France function so smoothly (until all hell and revolution breaks out every forty or so years).

After that we walked up the hill to the top of Old Figeac where there was some sort of fair happening, and then we walked back down stopping to observe the judging of the blond Aquitaine cattle. The place was packed with locals watching the event the way Canadians watch a hockey game. Loud cheers for the victorious animals.

Judging the Blonde Aquitaines: handlers in white, judges in blue. The stately winner in the centre gets a ribbon; the losers become beef bourguignon.

After that, we went back to the hotel, where – it being the late afternoon – we drank some wine, and then, of course, went for a drink at the same square we were at the night before. There, we ate olives and potato chips and met some Aussies who were walking the Camino. Back to the room, where we drank some more wine (Côtes du Rhône, a soothing red with hints of jackrabbit musk), and ate sausage, cheese, tomatoes, and bread that we bought at the market. It was wonderful. Anne went to sleep and I played with the internet, fed the ducks, and listened to the cattle low, while drinking the wine.

Unfortunately, I had a rough sleep because the cows continued to low loudly all night. You’d think it would be soothing, but it wasn’t. “Ils chantaient” (they were singing) said the concierge the next morning.

To read part 3 of our journal, Rocamadour to Albi, click here.