In 2013 I undertook my longest walking pilgrimage of 1388 km from Arles, in the south of France to Santiago de Compostela. My journey through France took me along the GR 653 long distance walking trail or better known as the Chemin d'Arles - where many curiosities were encountered.
Travels with Penance: Lessons learnt on the Chemin d'Arles
It’s a known historical fact that the ancient pilgrim would make the arduous peregrination to Santiago de Compostela as a form of repentance for one’s sins. Today, in a world of comfort on demand and instant gratification, for many there seems to be little meaning beyond pleasure and satisfaction. On my 2013 walk from Arles towards the apostolic city, I made the error of being too indulgent with all necessary mod cons for modern day travel.
Since I was heading out on a 3 months trek through wet and remote country the day before my flight to Paris I began packing, unpacking and repacking a well-designed rucksack. There was a thermos drinking flask for the cold and a coffee dripper for the morning rush, a sleeping bag and a self-inflating mattress for the occasional romantic pilgrim experience of dossing on church porches, a compact high-end digital camera to capture RAW moments and a Diana plastic camera with seven rolls of film for more arty shots. Then there were a pair of rugged sandals for anticipated hot weather (which never arrived) and a large plastic kitchen box for numerous food items - a necessity in remotest France. However all these items didn’t fit, and I wasn’t going to carry additional hand luggage on a proposed 1600km walking pilgrimage. Sitting in my bedroom corner a large and looming orange / black elephant spoke to me like a demon: “Carry me mere mortal, and I shall guide you on your way”.
My first steps and thoughts on that bitterly cold March morning out of Arles were filled with excitement, but also some apprehension. I soon came to know my 16kg backpack as Penance! As I walked the Petit Rhône trail, graceful white Camargue horses looked up at me in astonishment as if wondering how this horseless pilgrim managed. I stopped for a coffee break, conveniently on the ready supply in my thermos. Twenty two tiring kilometres later I stood in awe at the porch of Saint Giles-du-Gard. I secured a room on the little square overlooking the church, and that evening met my first fellow pilgrims in the dinning room downstairs. A Swiss woman said that she had noticed me earlier in the day from a distance, and what was I carrying?
At Montpellier, the Swiss and I were the only two pilgrims at the Sanctuaire Saint-Roch. In this vibrant University town the venerated Saint-Roch was born. His statue is instantly recognisable from the way he reveals a wounded thigh when succumbing to plague; a faithful dog brings him a loaf of bread. During the weeks ahead I would make all effort to visit a church known to have a statue of Saint-Roch and there were many along the Way. He thus became my patron saint.
I made good effort to be at Saint Guilhem-le-Désert, where they have an alleged fragment of the true cross. The picture-book village was already full of tourists and heavy downpours flooded the streets. I attended the evening mass celebrating Maundy Thursday, before Good Friday, where we all partook in washing the hands of our neighbour – ceremoniously in place of the traditional washing of the feet. My sore feet could have done with a hot bath!
A few days later, I was just getting into the rhythm of things, when going down a small step at the gîte at twilight I noisily popped a thigh muscle. The pain was horrific, and I was in tears over the disappointment that my pilgrimage was possibly over. Penance of one kind or another was certainly being executed. However the gîte owner kindly drove me next day to a pharmacist, who recommended Anika oil, painkillers and a minimum of two days rest. Also a little prayer to Saint-Roch and Saint-Jacques would suffice. So I was taken to the bus station from where I would travel onto Saint Gervais-sur-Mare for rest in its spacious gîte d’étape, all to myself. I posted my thermos and Diana camera back home, which lightened my load by 1.5kg. A small effort at the very least, but many other items over the coming weeks would follow. A book I was tired of reading, a woollen shirt too hot for comfort, and my faithful self-inflating mattress were left as a donation at Auch. Even in a place associated with Armagnac and D’Artagnan there can be need.
The trouble with long duration travel in Europe for non-EU members is the Schengen visa restricting travellers to a 90-days maximum period. So I had to keep to a tight schedule, and if ill had to make up time with the use of public transport or even a taxi! Nonetheless I eventually walked a total of 1388 Km between Arles and Santiago de Compostela.
One of the key reasons for choosing the difficult Chemin d’Arles was that I wished to spend a night up at the remote and precariously placed C14th chapelle de Saint-Eutrope. However in my Saint Roch-esque state of being and the weather turning bad I had no choice but to abandon this plan, and press on. I was disappointed with myself, and the lack of amenities this part of France offered did not help. Stores in town and city alike were closed on Mondays, and water was almost unavailable during the long stretches between stops.
I had been recommended, and only as a last resort, to reserve a place at the remote gîte d’étape Les Clèdes run by the reclusive Monsieur Christian Edel. After a painful hike through the rain, snow was beginning to fall when I arrived at his hidden abode. I was greeted first by two scruffy dogs, and then by the man himself. I was in for a night not entirely forgotten. He offered weary pilgrims, quite rarely it appeared, accommodation in the quintessential hermitage of a single male without the comforts provided by a wife or mother. Nonetheless he made every effort to put me up as hospitably as possible. A big pot of soup was placed on the fire, a hot shower prepared (which came from a garden hose rigged up to a makeshift water heater) and many a bottle of liquor was placed on the table for my entertainment. Christian turned out to be quite entertaining himself, and although he spoke not a word of English and my French remains appalling, we managed very well. He had been a magician in his youth, and still had a few magic tricks up his sleeve. It was all too clear he led a lonely existence well off the Way. It was only a day later that some people told me the true, sad story. About ten years before, his ailing mother had left the house one snowy winter’s evening for a walk, and never returned. This had clearly left its mark on the man.
During the following days I was a lone pilgrim once more out in the cold and snow. I tramped my way silently through the forest with nothing but the call of the Common Cookoo for comfort, for spring had indeed arrived. The European spring of 2013 is said to have been the coldest on record, and being on the Chemin d’Arles out of season there were very few pilgrims to share real time with. But once I neared Toulouse, the weather improved and more pilgrims were evident. Most spoke French only, and in all the five weeks it took me to reach the Pyrenees, I only met about half a dozen people who spoke moderately good English. I wished I’d done a crash course in French in the months before departure.
This of course all changed once on that memorable day when I tramped down Calle Mayor, Puente la Reina, with Penance (who had steadily becoming lighter over the past weeks). The street was filled with people speaking a multitude of languages, all of whom were indeed pilgrims, some at café terraces and others just milling about with their little neatly packed rucksacks. The French Road is not without its hardships, but the modern-day pilgrim traveller is spoilt for choice and convenience, especially when the warmer months have arrived. It was no longer necessary to carry three days’ supply of food, and convenience stores were now quite frequent, catering predominantly to these travelling hordes of pilgrims. There was little opportunity now for silent and meditative days of rambling along the Way.
Penance, now back in the corner of my room at home, stands as a reminder of lessons of all sorts learnt on the Chemin d’Arles.
My pilgrimage started and ended under a black felt hat - it provided warmth and shade during this enduring journey. Like the pilgrims' credential and as a memento of my undertaking I accumulated numerous hat pins along the way from key points associated with the historical pilgrimage route.
Saint-Roch from Montpellier became my patron saint while on the Chemin d'Arles.
Which Way to follow that is the question. The quaint village of Joncels provided some answers, but didn't warn of a accident to happen that evening in St Martin. On my way in the middle of the night to the bathroom and going down a 10cm step I popped a muscle in the left thigh! Increable as I'd tramped so far hundreds of kilometres without much damage to have met with such misfortune. A bus to the next location and a couple of full days rest were required, but it wouldn't be until a least one month later where I felt little pain.
This is the Way and indeed it was a wintry Way. Tramping through 15cm of snow for two long days in the forests of Haut - Lanuedoc provided little relief for my popped thigh muscle. I had little choice but to press on. These small Way side iron crosses provided some comfort for me en route.
I spent one cold wet night at the remote abode of Les Cledes run by reclusive, but entertaining Monsieur Christian Edel. His place had seen better days but he made all efforts to accommodate me with a hot meal and many a bottle of liquor placed on the table.
The weather was leaving its toll on me while walking the Chemin d'Arles, but by the time I reached Castres I was a well seasoned pilgrim traveller.
Revel has one of France's largest market halls where a forest of intriguing wooden pillars support its covered area. At Revel I was to meet a fellow pilgrim who spoke a little English - there were only about half a dozen pilgrims on the GR653 who I could converse fluently with as in the off season the Way attracts few travellers from beyond Frances boarders.
The monumental Romanesque church spire of Saint-Sernin in Toulouse. Due to my injuries and for the fact that I only had a total of 90 days in Europe I had to bus it from Ravel to Toulouse. Here I made a rare rest day and had friends from the Lot Valley meet up with me.
In Toulouse there is a fantastic light metro system and the native Occitan or lenga d'oc is displayed on all street signage. I took the chemin instead of the Metro!
The clock tower of the collegiate church of Saint-Martin at L'Isle-Jourdain is a remnant from a former castle.
Charles de Batz-Castelmore d'Artagnan looks over Auch. D'Artagnan was promoted to captain-lieutenant of the Musketeers in 1667. Dumas in his story of the Three Musketeers highly fictionalizes the life of D'Artagnan.
The small bastide town of Barran features the unique helicoidal spired church of Saint-Jean-Baptiste. Evidently there are 33 such church spires in France, another can be found on the Le Puy Way at Saint-Come d'Alt.
Baptismal font at the church of Saint-Blaise in the village of Lacommande. Here I had the 4 place gite d'etape all to myself, was able to take a good look inside the Romanesque church, while in the small cemetery two shy cats greeted me amongst the Basque steles.
Beyond Oloron-Sainte-Marie I entered the beautiful Aspe Valley, met another swiftly pacing pilgrim pictured and spent a night in the company of fellow pilgrims at the run down, but delightful monastery of Sarrance. A fresh mantle of spring snow dusted the Pyrenees of which I was soon to cross.
Le Petit Sheppard. In the Aspe Valley I managed to capture the moment where this confident young boy appeared to have mastered the way of many generations before him in leading his flock.
Detail in the upper Aspe Valley.
Winter lingers long in the Pyrenees, icicles near the Col du Somport. While taking this photo I heard a sudden and primal Roarrr...Roarrr...Roarrr!!! Perhaps only 100 or 200 m away from me I made a smart move fearing that a hungry bear just out of hibernation was on my tail. As precaution I made a loud racket with my two hiking stocks to allow this "bear" to know of my presence in its vicinity. One hour later I arrived chilled to the bone at the Aysa Albergue just over the border into Spain. I mimmicked this bear sound to the owner who laughed and told me that it was only a mountain goat.
Way marker at the Puerto de Somport giving further comfort in a howling gale that I had just 858 km to go until I would reach the Apostolic city.
After crossing the Pyrenees I was in the mighty Aragon River Valley. The vast alluvial plain and stunning views back towards the snow capped peaks gave assurance that I had tackled a major mile stone in my peregrination.
A hint of summer was in the air at tranquil Arres, although it never really happened in the European spring of 2013 - the coldest on record.
Sanguesa, another major historical pilgrims' halt on the Aragonese Way, provided good company with other travellers. As many churches these days appear to be locked we were in luck to be admitted into the iglesia de Santiago where I had my pilgrim's credencial stamped. Above the church entrance the tympanum features a 16th century polychrome statue of St James.
It was at Puente la Reina where I finally connected with the popular French Road. In fact it was a true shock to encountered so many hordes of pilgrim travellers first time in many weeks of walking the Way. Here I captured a rare moment of a pilgrim free bridge with only a couple of locals present.
Hardie hardie...In spite of the sheer pilgrim numbers which in the month of May now swells to a staggering 300 to 400 pilgrim travellers per section per day on the French Road there are many varied and eccentric characters to meet along the Way. This pipe smoking Fidel Castro look alike was in fact an Occitan Nationalist!
There are it appears many means into travelling the Way such as by foot, bicycle or even donkey. However it was at Cirauqui where I first met Austrian pilgrims Reinhard and his wife Elisabeth. Reinhard soon became dubbed the Human Donkey as frequently he made use of a beautifully hand built human powered vehicle to cart his wife along the Way. As there were many gradients to encounter from time to time she had to alight and do what we all had to do and walk!
In the true spirit of the ancient pilgrimage this French family were on their return home from Santiago with the aid of mules.
I gained many short term and long term travel companions along the Way. I kept bumping into a small group of "good old American boys" between Belorado and Leon who were on a an epic global pilgrimage called Kingdom Journeys.
His hat is bigger than mine, but the journey is more important than just the hat! A fellow pilgrim insisted that I sit down with the bronze guy and have my portrait taken here at Villalcazar.
The cobbled Way into Sahagun took my self and another pilgrim over the ancient Ermita Virgen del Puente. However even in these tranquil surroundings we were soon joined by a noisey mob of so called pilgrims with a blaring radio.
Every morning it was my mission to commence the journey early with a good strong cup of coffee. Along the French Road in Spain this was no problem a task. However in France its self I found the coffee of such poor standard when there was a rare establishment open that I gave in a made my own.
I thought that I was doing it hard with my heavy ruck sack. However this guy was really taking it to the extreme on his pilgrimage from Lisbon to Jerusalem!
I first discovered the Little Church on the Way (self titled) outside of Camponaraya (Ponferrada) during my 2004 pilgrimage to Santiago. It a simple breeze block structure, 250m off the camino and out of sight, seems to be in a drawn out progress of construction. For no reason really what so ever it has become a little pilgrimage site for me to visit now.
Some pilgrims like myself carry too much baggage! This guy really took it to the extreme with his assortment of bags, going the opposite direction clearly on his return home or was the camino his home. There are numerous people for some reason or another who have made it their home.
Did somebody loose their hat?
On the Way I met plenty of other photographers, generally the snap and forgot variety, but it was with the people who had the time to stop, contemplate and make something special out of their pilgrimage which I admired the most. Giorgio from Milan had only 10 days time off work to do his camino from Sarria to Santiago, but was devoting quality time each and every day to knock up several fine illustration as a memento. Here at Castromaior he completes one of the minute village church.
In Galicia and nearing Santiago I was often reminded of home with the tall stands of eucalyptus trees. This may be a vision of the Camino Australia: MacKillop Woods Way!
On the outskirts of Santiago somebody must have given up their boots for some reason or other. Frequently boots and shoes can be found abandoned on the Way. I even myself gave up my boots, but not until after my arrival at the Apostolic city. There at the albergue I left a note accompanying them and half joking for who ever finds them to please burn them for me at Cape Finisterre. Who knows, but more likely they ended up like these.
On the Prazo Obradoiro and outside the Catedral de Santiago almost anything goes. With its high unemployment these two enterprising locals have found a means to make ends meet - cashing in on the pilgrimage!
The Feisty Little Pilgrim, I parted some euros for the Oh so cute factor on the Prazo Obradoiro.
The Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela from the Prazo Obradoiro.
As I said my pilgrimage started and ended under a black felt hat! I had become almost as recognisable en route to Santiago de Compostela as that Feisty Little Pilgrim above. The metal pins were almost weighing me down by pilgrimage end. This said I did managed to reduce some load in the burdensome ruck sack I came to name Penance.
Below is my pilgrim's credencial showing all stamps given en route during the course of my 1388 km walking pilgrimage from Arles in France to Santiago de Compostela.
All photographic images are Copyright
