Calais to Arras: Slugs, Nuns, Toads

After three days without walking the blisters on the balls of my feet had largely healed. I was ready to push ahead. This time there was no ferry to catch. There was just the road. For the next nineteen thousand kilometres.

I would spend the day walking away from Rome. The last stop on Sigeric’s Francigena itinerary was Wissant. It is a small town on the coast, west from Calais. Until it’s harbour silted up in around the 12th century it used to be the most common port of embarkation to England. There is a plaque on the town church commemorating Thomas Becket’s departure from there in 1170. It was his return from exile shortly before his matyrdom.

Most modern pilgrims miss it out because they’re keen to get going. I wanted to see the old town and I enjoy walking by the sea. It’s much harder to get lost if you keep the water on one side.

The morning carried a dense fog. As I walked out of Calais, towards the sea, the invisible ships were blaring their horns in warning. I was walking into the unknown.

On the Calais beach there were dykes made out of thick wooden poles the size of tree trunks. The gaps in between them looked human-size but I wasn’t sure if they were human-with-a-large-backpack-size. I didn’t relish the prospect of having to trek up the beach to have to get round each one. Speeding up, perhaps expecting momentum to push me through, I headed for the widest gap I could see. With the faintest of brushing I made it through. It took them as a series of gates, christening the French voyage.

The walk for the rest of the day was quite lovely. I enjoyed the mist and the sound of the sea. Going through a small village I spotted a cousin of my dog and had to ask permission for him to be photographed. He wasn’t so keen on me.

I ate my lunch by a calvaire, feeling like a very earnest pilgrim, then continued on, climbing some ridges surrounding the area. One thing I would find in the week is that the GR145 (the Francigena in the Pas de Calais) did have a tendency to veer towards and then up any small (or large) crest in the landscape.

The final 5 km returned to the beach. My Airbnb host had warned me that people often got caught under the cliffs on these sands. I was a little nervous but was fairly confident the tide was going out.

Before long I saw Wissant appear from behind a headland. It was a popular resort. Apparently Parisians think the surfing is especially good. I headed to the municipal campsite and got my pitch for the night. Then, dinner of pasta and tomato sauce (now a staple) and bed. Just as I was heading under canvas it began to rain.

The following day began with another short but stiff hill climb then began to proceed through mainly farmland. I saw an awful lot of slugs. Some quite a lot bigger than a thumb.

On one of the fields I saw a hare. Huge hind legs powering it powerfully across the furrows. I felt very much like the tortoise. But I smiled because I knew that meant I won.

Later, I spotted even more cousins, this time in a pack. There were about eight of them but they wouldn’t stay still for a picture. Their owners kept asking me when I was getting the train. Then when I successfully conveyed there would be no train they said I had better get going then.

Just after leaving the dogs the guidebook suggested two routes. An ‘official version’ through the woods and a diversion. For some reason I decided that I ought to be ‘official’. I got lost very quickly in the woods but the problem was I didn’t realise I was lost four about forty-five minutes. And then the path becomes less path-like and doubt starts to build. You become gradually increasingly convinced of your error: of the fact that the road not taken a couple of kilometres back was, in fact, the correct road.

I wasn’t turning back so I fired up google maps and tried to work out where I was. Next to a TGV track. Difficult to get across. I stumbled through the forest and into a farm/stable. A dog (non-spaniel) took a disliking to me and took a bite at my ankle. Reader, fear not: it did not break skin and I am not rabid.

I managed to rejoin the track and had another few kilometres before reaching Guînes. On entering the campsite (which provided a free pitch to pilgrims) it began spitting with rain. Oh dear, damp sleeping. The man at the reception was showing me to the pitch as the weather took another turn for the worse. He ran back to reception, pointed at me to go another way and then returned with a key to a caravan. I was very grateful to be dry after all. What a very nice man.

The next day I was off at 8am, very pleased with myself. The first portion of the journey was through a different, more trackable, forest. The floor was carpeted with bluebells. I wish I were better at photography to do them justice.

The rest of the day was again mainly farmland. Wheat or rapeseed largely. It was quite a long day (32km) so by the time I had reached the village of Tourneham-sur-la-Hem having climbed another well-sized hill I was pretty tired.

I headed to another campsite which was a small plot behind a hotel. Just me and what I thought was a couple in a caravan for the night. It was Monday and all the shops were close but luckily my emergency ration of Uncle Ben’s rice with ‘Parisian’ mushrooms saw me through.

The next morning after returning from the shower I met my neighbour. “Are you coming or going?” He asked me. He was from Lancashire. “Going.” I said. He said, “Going” too but he meant going home.

I asked him how his holiday had been. “Something quite bad happened to me.” He said. “My wife died whilst I was on holiday. She had a brain aneurysm which we knew about and it popped.” They had been holidaying just outside of Benidorm.

“I’m so sorry”, I said, “Did you have family around you?” “No. She only had her brother. And I don’t have his phone number so I’ll have to tell him when I’m back.” “I’m sorry, that’s a really terrible thing to happen.” I said, inadequately. “I’m getting over it now, its nearly been a month.” “Just take your time.” “That’s what everyone keeps saying: take your time.” Then his dog pissed on my tent. “There’s not much left in him,” the man from Lancashire said, dolefully.

He drove off and I was left quite stunned.

I stood in that car park for a few minutes thinking about sorrow and about that man and about the brother. I thought how he would be on the Eurotunnel in a couple of hours and back in Lancashire in the evening. And I also thought about solitariness. And then I packed my tent and left.

The walk for the day wasn’t that far. Just less than twenty kilometres. I passed by windmills and again across lots of farmland. The scenery reminded me of the North Downs Way.

At about 3 o’clock I arrived in Wisques. It is a tiny village that has absolutely no facilities apart from two abbeys. I had chosen l’Abbaye de Notre Dame because it had an email address. “Yes, you can come. Dinner is at seven,” they had replied to me.

The weather had really taken a turn for the fabulous. It was warm and I didn’t have to go far. Arriving at the hostel just next to the abbey was like arriving in paradise. Soeur Lucie was waiting for me outside with a smile that just about matched the sun. The hostel was gorgeous: late 19th-early twentieth century with large wooden door and window frames. The light felt like it had been curated.

Soeur Lucie showed me round and told me that the Mother Superior would be at dinner. At least, that’s what I thought she had said. Full of joy and sun I did a quick wash and spent the afternoon reading before going to Vespers in the chapel. A helpful nun, conscious of my obviously bad French and worse Latin, kept coming up to me to point where we were in the order of service.

After Vespers dinner was in the main Abbey. I expected a large refectory so was a little surprised to see just two nuns preparing dinner. Then I spotted that there were only two places. Ah. Soeur Lucie had actually said I would be eating with the Mother Superior, alone. This really was a stretch of my half-forgotten GCSE French. We did not contemplate the nature of the Divine. Although, when she asked “Avez-vous des freres et des soeurs?” I felt on reasonably safe ground.

It was a slightly strange dinner that involved the following, each served as a separate course: a delicious thin vegetable soup, mashed potato, a boiled egg (from the hens at the Abbey), babybel, and tinned plums and pears. It was actually very good.

I slept wonderfully and very easily. The next morning Soeur Lucie was back to organise breakfast which involved the best jam I had ever tasted. The nuns had made it. It might have had damsons in it – something tasted vaguely apple-y.

I left feeling full of peace and joy. In fact, after a kilometre or so I started crying. I’m not quite sure why. My legs were still sore and I wasn’t sure where I was going to sleep that night. Nevertheless, I was  overwhelmed by an intense feeling of deep contentedness. I wept for about twenty minutes whilst walking along. Although quite peculiar, it was quite transcendentally amazing. I would recommend Wisques highly.

After the first few days of diligently following the route I decided to walk more directly. I had planned to stay in Thérouanne but walking the more direct route that would only be ten kilometres. I decided I would walk on further and reduce the long walk for the next day. Campsites were thin on the ground so I had decided to use my bivvy bag for the first time in the forest.

Just before lunch time I passed over the hill just before Thérouanne. In front of me stretched the Chaussée Brunehaut, a Roman road that had persisted in importance throughout the medieval period. It was certainly a road past pilgrims had taken. It led at least until Arras, my stopping place in three nights. The road is now, however, very busy with traffic so I spent the next few days walking parallel and occasionally crossing it.

Still, it was incredible to see. The heat from the tarmac made it look like a mirage. It ran straight like an arrow into the horizon.

I spent a couple of hours in the shade in Thérouanne, trying to wait out the worst of the heat (by then it was about 26 degrees) and not in a particular hurry to go anywhere. Finally, I walked on for another ten kilometres.

I decided I would find somewhere to stay for the night. I entered into a short forested area and thought it would be perfect. After searching through some brambles to no avail I came towards the end of the path where there was an embankment at the side. I climbed up and on the other side was a broad clearing. It would be perfect: no one on the path would even be able to see me. No matter the ‘Entrée Interdit’ sign.

So, I read for a while and began cooking dinner: more tomato pasta. Just as I was finishing up I glanced to my right. Someone had arrived. A man had climbed the embankment with his bike. Rumbled, I thought. He was walking up to me and he didn’t look too cross. At least I wouldn’t be shouted at.

Quickly, however I realised we were mutual trespassers. His English was better than my French so we managed pretty well. I learned that he had come to listen to toads. He asked me what I was doing and then asked me where I was staying. I indicated the corner of the clearing.

He was completely in awe of the beauty of the evening. His eyes were wide with pleasure.

After we chatted intermittently for about five minutes he said, “Oh, you can stay at my house.” It was said with a tone that didn’t even suggest it was an act of kindness. I hastily agreed and then invited myself along to the toad listening.

Jean, as I found his name to be, walked us to the other side of the path. Before we left he asked if I didn’t want to bring my coat. “We’ll be listening for maybe two hours.” He told me the whole area was an abandoned mine.  We climbed through some barbed wire and found the side of a large pond. “Now we wait.”

Night began to fall and the birdsong began to quieten. Finally, what was previously a symphony dwindled to a solo: the rouge gorge (red breast), Jean informed me. Then, darkness. I couldn’t remember the word for darkness in French. L’obscurité, I was told.

And then, after a few minutes of silence, the noises of the night began to take over. Jean cupped his hands around his ears and insisted I do the same. ‘Super-ears’ he called them. Super.

Then I heard a noise. A definitely amphibian noise. “Frogs”, Jean said. Then more frogs. Maybe more than a hundred frogs joining in a dense call. It felt a bit like a tape loop dropping in and out of sync. “Maybe after the frogs we will hear the toads.”

We walked away from the pond, towards a group of rocks where Jean had heard the toads last time. It was very dark by now. There was a very slender crescent moon. The sky was a beautiful deep blue ombre. It was completely beautiful.

Jean told me he loved three things: nature, cycling, and his wife. He had a deliberately old phone because no news is good news. Still just frogs. Jean re-created the noise I should be listening out for. A sort of peeping as opposed to the collective croaking.

We listened for about an hour and a half. “Maybe we are too early for the toads or maybe we are too late for the toads.” I think Jean knew I was tired. He was saying we should go.

Just as we were leaving the mine I heard something. I thought it sounded like peeping. “Did you hear that?” I asked. “I wasn’t listening.” And then there it was again. “Ah yes!” Jean’s face brightened. “I hear it.” I was pleased. And then, “A frog.” Another frog.

As we were leaving something leapt across my path. I called to Jean. “A toad, I think there’s a toad!” Jean turned back and looked. “A frog.” I was disappointed. And then he said, “Oh no, it’s a toad.” I was pleased; I felt like I had helped him complete his mission but he didn’t seem to care about its silence.

We got back to his house which was a couple of kilometres away and he showed me to a bedroom. It was late and I slept well, not dreaming of frogs.

In the morning, Jean and his wife Angela put on an amazing breakfast. Rhubarb and Strawberry jam that Angela had made. Then, eggs and spinach both from the garden. A shake of tumeric on the eggs – which is something I recommend trying. “In the town for organic food you need to go to a shop, here you just go to the garden.”

Then, reluctantly, it was time to rejoin the road. Jean walked me back to the route. He gave me some compressed fruit bars for the road. I took his address and promised to send him a postcard from Rome. It was an extraordinary pleasure to have met him and Angela. Always climb embankments.

The next day was toward Bruay-la-Brussière. It headed through woodland for about the first eight kilometres and then after that through a strange sort of suburbia. Again, it was very hot.

Bruay-la-Brussière used to be a very large mining area and I think it and the surrounding area have struggled with post-industrial decline. The suburbs I was walking through reminded me of mining towns in the North of England.

As I walked into denser and denser civilisation I found myself feeling less comfortable. I was losing some of the ease that I had built in the countryside. Smiles were slightly fewer.

After eventually arriving in Bruay I was cheered by a woman called Ezer telling me that I had better French than the last pilgirm she had met. I hadn’t wanted to sleep rough in such a built up area so I had booked a hotel for the night. It was, unfortunately, a couple of kilometres out of the centre. Bruay seemed to be stretched along the long road I had to walk up.

On reaching the hotel I was glad of the white towels and sheets. I showered and shaved and felt quite normal again. I couldn’t cook in my hotel room so I went out to shop for dinner. I brought myself to a ‘hypermarket’ and honestly, it was hyper. The biggest supermarket I have ever been to.

I felt quite bewildered and like I had perhaps done another couple of kilometres traipsing the aisles. It felt strange that I had been listening to toads the previous night.

The next day I was surprised by my urge to return to rurality. I had written a rough itinerary from the contents page of my guidebook. A more concerted study would have shown me I could have made it to Arras in one day. But I had booked my accommodation for the following night so I needed to make an intermediate stop.

Ablain-Saint-Nazaire was the stopping place. There were two routes: one that climbed a high ridge through the forest and added an additional extravagant 12km loop, the other was much direct and was only 15km. I thought I’d stretch my legs and decided to go through the forest. Perhaps a mistake.

The first fifteen kilometres were tough, particularly because it was so hot. The forest provided a fair amount of shade but the climbs were steep and the footing was often quite difficult. Navigating in the forest was also less than ideal: an instruction in the guidebook to bear right when there is a crossroad of six roads leaves you a little frustrated.

The route plateaued and became a lot easier before re-entering another wood before arrival. Just before  the village the route crosses the cemetery of Notre Dame des Lorettes: the largest French military cemetery.

As I was arriving the sun was setting. The lines of gravestones stretched beyond comprehension. This area of France bears  various scars of the First World War.

Walking down to the village, you see the remains of a fifteenth century church destroyed in the War. Another church was built closer to the centre of town to replace it. The ruins remain as a powerful memorial.

I was camping again that night and was glad to get to sleep after a long and hot day of walking. Although the guidebook said the route was 27km my phone thinks I did 33.

I had become frustrated with the sun. I was annoyed with the constant reapplication of cloying suncream. I decided to try and get up early and do the final 20km to Arras before the afternoon hit its stride. I was spending Sunday in Arras to rest.

I made good progress and reached the halfway point of Mont-Saint-Eloi fairly quickly. It is the site of another ruined sacred building, this time an abbey destroyed during the revolution.

Slightly further down the way I was recruited by a sweaty farmer who was trying to heard his cows into a pasture. The problem was that to either side of the gate were two roads in opposite directions. The cows were choosing whichever route they liked best and the farmer was running around with a stick trying to stop them from completely scattering. I stood in one of the roads and he managed to get them all in. His forehead was beaded with the effort.

I marched on, passing through several villages before reaching Arras. Again, it wasn’t a hugely direct route.

Arras is a city that was heavily involved in the First World War, about 10km from the front line. It was also the site of two battles, one in 1914 and one in 1917. It was very damaged but was rebuilt with great care and is a very beautiful city.

There was a thunderstorm predicted for tonight and at 5am this morning I thought I heard a thunder clap. I had prepared the simile for this blog: like enormous bins being dragged over the cobbles of the sky. When I properly woke up everything was dry. Perhaps it was just bins being dragged over regular cobbles. The storm has not arrived and it is proving to be another glorious day.

I have walked for eight days and more than 200km from Canterbury. Tomorrow I’m walking to Bapaume and heading in the direction of the Champagne region.

 

Thank you for reading.