Chasing does to Reims

After eight days of walking my day of rest in Arras was welcome. I was up  early (habits formed) and walked around the city. It has two beautiful squares and three remarkable churches. I climbed the belfry and spent the early afternoon sipping Leffe in a sunny plaza.

Later, the cathedral was holding a mass for peace on the centenary year of the armistice. It’s a vast neo-classical 18th century design, very imposing from the outside but with an incredibly luminous interior. It was, like much of the city, destroyed in 1917 but rebuilt according to the original plans.

At the end of the mass the person sitting next to me turned and asked if I was English. After explaining myself, she told me she had recently walked from Canterbury to Dover with a group and she knew the Francigena. She ended up taking me to see her grandson who had walked a part of the Compostella two years ago. It turned out it was mainly so he could (reluctantly) practice English for upcoming exams.

After the revision exercise the grandmother invited me into her own home (just around the corner) for a drink. It was palatial. On a sort of corner with at least twenty rooms. I asked her if it was her family home. “No, we bought this one forty years ago. My mother has her chateau in the country.” We shared a small bottle of coke and then I left. She gave me her phone number and insisted I call if I needed anything before I left town. I returned to my Airbnb, ate and slept.

The next destination was Bapaume. Arras has quite a large urban area and it took about 7km of walking along roads and waiting at traffic lights to escape from the urbanity. On reaching farmland, the fields were being ploughed ready for potatoes. Foot-and-a-half deep furrows that were sometimes cut perpendicularly as if to create an enormous optical illusion across the field.

Near a Manchester war cemetery I met a man on a bicycle who seemed to know who I was. When I said I was a pilgrim he looked at me as if I was stating the obvious. He produced a booklet full of numbers for accommodation for the next two days. He said he lived in a nearby village. “There is a chapel just round the corner from here,” he said “Sign your name. And then afterwards turn up to the left and it will be the best part of your day. And tomorrow, leaving Bapaume, don’t follow the route, go along the main road for a while and then turn left: there’s a very wide pavement.” And then, he sped off on his bicycle, out of view in a moment. Perhaps an angelic apparition.

I rounded the corner and there was the tiny chapel. A sign in two directions: Rome and Canterbury. Still a very long way to go. Then, an appointment book on a table. It was barely written in but had a page for each day. I signed my name at 11am. Heading, on I took the turning onto the route that the bicycle man had described to me. It followed a disused railway track between some woods which separated two fields. He had been right: the dappled light made the walk quite beautiful.

Suddenly, a doe jumped out from the left of the woodland and moved quickly over the fields. Her hind legs flew into the air in a motion that the word ‘gambolling’ must have been invented for. The presence shocked me into laughter. She was gone too quickly for a photo.

The rest of the day was mainly along roads; something that was to become something of a theme for the next few days. My guidebook had told me the local parish offered accommodation for pilgrims and I had been trying to reach them on the phone all day. Finally I got through. No, they told me, they didn’t. They gave me another number but I wasn’t quite sure what it was they were giving me.

I phoned and realised it was some sort of hotel. I asked what price and was told thirty euros for pilgrims. That’s a bit over my normal budget and I had just spent two nights in a bed so I sort a bumbled a non-committal answer and hung up. The owner phoned me back in five minutes and offered five euros less. Seduced by a discount and the prospect of another shower I agreed.

The rest of the day didn’t take too much time. More walking past potato fields. Some were being planted out. I always find it amazing that potato seeds are potatoes.

I arrived to the address I had been given over the phone having little idea of what to expect. It was a gîte (a French B&B) and I was the only guest. The room was very comfortable and the shower purged the dust of the road.

My Airbnb host from Arras had left me with the words: “Bapaume is not as pretty as Arras but you can rest there.” I, politely, said to the proprietor of the gîte that I thought Bapaume was a nice place. “A lot of building work,” she replied. But at least I could rest.

That evening I found myself sitting beside a busy road, outside a takeaway  kiosk, tearing into a pizza with my hands and drinking a can of Kronenburg as cars whizzed by. The roadside felt completely ambivalent. I wondered what I was doing there: I felt like a speck being blown by the wind. Or like jetsam on the waves.

The next day I was provided with an excellent breakfast. More exciting homemade jam: cherry, blackberry, and pear. I left, a little before 9am and, on the instructions of the bicycle-angel took the main road out of Bapaume. Somewhat quickly the promised pavement disappeared.

Walking into heavy traffic is dispiriting feeling. You are highly aware of pushing against the flow. When a HGV passes you are buffeted by a wall of displaced air. The man on the bicycle had transforned from angel into demon.

Much of the rest of the day was on less busy roads. Still, the passing cars and tarmac were a constant reminder that you were walking on a surface not designed from you. It made progress seem crawlingly slow.

I passed through several villages. One was home to a German war cemetery. It was hidden away behind houses and along a small grass track. It had a very definite beauty and solemnity.

I eventually joined an industrially wide canal which made for more pleasant walking. The path softened from tarmac to compacted dirt. The placid water cleansed the rush of traffic.

At a hill 3km before reaching Pèronne I came across two Australians who were at a war memorial spot. They told me they had come to remember their grandfather who had been shot very close to that place during the Allied (mostly Australian) assault on the city in 1918. It hadn’t been fatal and he had gone home on a hospital ship to father their parents. They had found their pilgrimage destination.

I descended from the hill through the city. It felt invasive; there was a PA system blaring from a tennis court.

That night in Pèronne, the local parish did have accomodation for pilgrims. It was a couple of rooms off the courtyard that houses their offices. It was modest but very nicely appointed. I was welcomed with a wide smile. Out of curiosity I asked if there was a mass that evening in the church. I was told there wasn’t but there would be one in a close by village and the priest who would take it could drive me. I probably would have preferred sleep but I struggled to politely decline in French.

Resting briefly I removed a plaster from my left little toe and was surprised to see more blister than toe. One on the top and one on the bottom, both ruptured. That’s why it had hurt so much yesterday. I showered and redressed my feet.

At 6pm I was picked up by the priest who drove me quite far out of town to a small church that had a screen on the door to prevent the cats getting in. He told me that the three priests of Pèronne had to cover 60 villages. I was pretty favourable numbers compared to his neighbours, apparently. He was Korean and had trained there. I asked him why he had come to France. “It is complicated to explain. There is need here. Next year or the year after I will go back.”

Pulling up to the mass he told me, “I don’t think there will be many people there.” There were nine in the congregation, including me. On the drive back the priest told me, “Before I go back I want to walk, like you.”

I ate alone in the small room. I had found some aubergine pasta sauce which shook up my routine a little. It was sweet and smokey.

The next morning I had slept in a little but left Pèronne fairly quickly on disused railway tracks. It was another beautiful morning and I felt at ease walking through the trees and sunlight. There were more invertebrates on the trail. Snails with reptile-like scales and whorls of shells. And again, on the track a doe. It seemed to conjure itself into existence less than 10 feet from me immediately hurtle into the distance. Too quick for the camera once more.

Soon, however, the pleasant tracks were replaced with more road walking. Usually very quiet but occasionally busy. At one point I had to cross a large roundabout. The instruction ‘take the third exit’ is quite infuriating for a pedestrian. I thought for a moment about how to participate in the junction. Then  I defiantly walked into up the small grassy hill at the centre of the roundabout. They soil was uneven and difficult to walk on. It was not made for crossing.

After more road walking I arrived at the tiny village of Trefcon: a suggested stop by the guidebook. It had been less than 20km and there was a campsite Sigeric’s next official stopping point, a further 15km. I ate lunch and then continued on, again mostly on roads.

The stop was at Seareaucourt-le-Grand which was, contrary to the name, another very small village. The campsite was very nice and offered a very good pilgrim rate. I stood under the shower and set the temperature to just below scalding and stood with my back pressed against the button for twenty minutes.

Just outside the village was a large British war cemetery. I walked up to it after my shower and spent a while walking the lines of tombstones. I was surprised by how moved I was. I’m planning a separate post on some of the sites and language of the First World War so I won’t say more here.

The next day would go through the city of Tergnier. It began with more quiet roads and then for 10km joined a canal. At one point I found myself walking on what I thought was a concrete path but on attempting to use my walking poles found that either side of the concrete was a quick drop to marshland. I suddenly became more aware of my balance, more hesitant. Nothing had in fact changed.

Arriving in Tergnier I found another sprawling town. I wanted to push on and spend a night in a forest further on. I ate my lunch by a roundabout a couple of kilometres from the centre. The recommending feature was a bench.

The weather was incredibly indecisive: it would be gloriously sunny and then within twenty minutes the clouds would look on the verge of bursting. A couple of times they opened and dropped fat, warm droplets but never for more than a few minutes. I felt confident it wouldn’t rain in the night. I persisted to the forest.

On leaving the built-up area surrounding the city I was beginning to tire. My feet were sore and having no defined stopping place makes you tempted to rest early.

Passing through a farm I saw a smoking tree trunk. It was unclear how the small fire had started and most strangely of all, I couldn’t smell the smoke. It did not talk to me.

I pushed myself on for another five or so kilometres before reaching the vast forest of St. Gobain. I walked another kilometre into the forest and then turned left from the road, up an embankment and into the trees.

There had clearly been a previous path formed by a machine with deep treads ploughing through the woodland. The calf-height grass, however, made me convinced that nobody had been here since at least the start of spring.

I laid out a groundsheet and prepared my things for a night in the bivvy bag. I wanted to sleep in the forest: there is something slightly enchanting about it. In medieval romances, the quickest way to end up in faery land is to sleep under a tree. So sleep under a tree I would.

I made myself another dinner of pasta. This time I had tagliatelle and added a whole ball of mozzarella. It was pretty exceptional.

I tucked myself into my sleeping bag and alternately read and watched the light fade. Staring up to the sky I traced the lines of the trees which were partially covering me. They had an architecture that shone in the light.

As the sun faded, the birds began to quiet. Some strange noises took over: an animal that sounded like a lone clown shoe squeaking around. Thankfully it didn’t continue for more than a few minutes. Then, just before I found sleep, I heard the breaking of branches and a loud snort. A boar. I reached behind me and brought one of my walking poles within easy reach, thinking about best how to fend off a wild boar. In Gawain and the Green Knight the boar is the second animal to be hunted in the forest, after the deer.

I slept and dreamt of things disappointingly domestic. Neither the faeries nor the cheese had worked.

I was up early. The usual dawn chorus is louder when you’re in its midst. I packed and pushed my way out of the trees and back onto the road. It was a little cold for the first time. The next 10km continued through the forest.

After emerging from the trees I immediately saw my next destination, Laon, on the horizon. Another thing that happens in medieval romances is spontaneously appearing castles. I understood this apparition in a new way, but with cathedrals.

Laon is a medieval city that sits on a lone plateau in the Picardy plains. It was fortified by the Romans and for the next millennium-and-a-half was used as a defensive town. It’s quite an incredible place to have as a destination. Although I could see it clearly it took me two and a half hours to get there. Each time I crossed a slight bump in the terrain and the city was obscured from view it would reappear at what seemed like a different point on the horizon. It felt like magic.

It was a short day and I arrived by 1pm. I was staying at another Airbnb and my host Philippe proved to be extraordinarily kind. He immediately asked if I had washing that needed to be done and then offered me his bike to see the city: I was the sixth pilgrim he had hosted.

I was happy to be back in a saddle. Downhills felt like motion without cost and passed a welcome breeze through my hair. The city on the plateau sort of curves in on itself in an L-shape. This means that you are struck by incredible views of the cathedral at what seem like unlikely moments. It will disappear and then reappear with new, beguiling perspective.

I made my way around the edge of the old battlements which surrounded the city and finally to the cathedral itself. The doors looked shut but just needed a gentle push. The cathedral had a staggering number of windows. It filled the place with light. There were almost no visitors and the nave was half empty of chairs.

I left, finished my circular route and arrived back at Philippe’s. He was cooking little cakes for breakfast tomorrow. I made more pasta. This time with emmental.

I left late from Laon, unwilling to leave the city in the clouds. I climbed down from the city, smelling of Phillipe’s fabric softener and full of his cakes with a couple in my bag.

I reentered a forest. It was quite unlike the forest of St Gobain. It felt like a Star Wars planet. It was pitted with gulleys full of water, difficult to cross and confounding guidebook instructions. But it was the morning and it felt more like a puzzle than a disaster.

Emerging from the forest I walked through more villages. I stopped at a market to buy an orange and a couple of tomatoes. Then, headed steeply up another hill to arrive at a wide plateau. I turned to look for Laon but it had disappeared. The plateau was broad: its side dipped away slowly and it continued straight for a couple of kilometres. It felt a little like floating. Or as much as that is possible with more than 20 kilos on your back.

After passing through another village, a small wood and along another road I reached Corbenny. The weather was looking bad, very bad. I had planned to walk on another 7 kilometres and spend the night in a small woodland. It was supposed to start raining at 5am and not stop until the evening. There was a hotel in Corbenny that apparently had baths.

The next day was going to be a fairly long one and I dreaded the prospect of doing it in the rain. I decided to save myself some kilometres the next day and save my wallet. I walked on, away from the safety of the hotel and underneath a forbidding sky. It was down a single track road for 5km then off on smaller paths for a couple more.

Again, tired and developing what I’m now quite confident is a shin splint I headed into the woods again. It was close to a river with a few stagnant pools. There were bona fide mosquitos that were incredibly daring in their attacks. I applied 50% DEET, cooked more pasta and pitched my tent. I prepared for a quick getaway and went to bed.

At 4:52am the rain began. The first time the weather forecast had been accurate. It filled me with dread but I decided there was nothing I could do so went back to sleep for another couple of hours. Drowsily waking at around 7 I was listening to the rain. Had the situation improved? It sounded a little better but then I realised I had one ear buried in a pillow.

Then, after thinking about what to do and drifting in and out of sleep, the rain began to slow. Occasional patters remained. I had prepared full wet gear and emerged from my tent in it. It had stopped raining.

I packed quickly and got going. I was on my way to Reims for another rest day. After leaving a small village I turned off a street and was confronted by some young vines on the left. I had arrived in Champagne. Further up the hill the vineyard fanned out and stretched incredibly widely.

The rain had, however, made lots of the footing quite difficult. There was mud that was slippery and puddles that had been filled. Most of the way was off-road. At one point, after tramping through some muddy terrain I passed some field with very fine claggy soil. It bound to my boots and grew like a dirty snowball. It became like walking on three inch platform shoes, perhaps fun on a Friday night but it was Sunday morning and I had a long way to go.I would stop every couple of hundred metres to dislodge the additional material but it would reform just as quickly. It was hard work.

Despair and exhaustion talk to each other and multiply. I became obsessed with counting each metre. With getting closer to the end. The metres crawled by. My shin was very painful, made worse by the slippery footing. A muscle in my right shoulder intermittently caught on fire.

I arrived at a valley with wheat farms. On my left a third doe left across my path and hurtled off to the right. I stopped and watch it go. Then, to my amazement it led my sight to three more, standing in the centre of the field, seeming to watch me. The doe which had leapt out crossed quickly into a forest but the three who were stationary remained. They guarded my crossing.

Eventually I reached the canal into Reims. The time continued to stretch. I saw the cathedral on the horizon, painfully far away. Several people stopped to ask me where I was going. They welcomed me to Reims and encouraged me with smiles. The city is a crossroads between the Francigena and one of the Compostella routes. The residents are quite used to pilgrims.

Reims is a big city. The biggest I have been in so far and I think probably one of the biggest I will be in all trip. It felt strange to be crawling through a large city centre with my muddy boots and large rucksack. Crossing a road I glanced to the left and saw the cathedral unexpectedly. It is an incredible gothic pile of masonry that dominates any vista it is part of. Monstrously beautiful.

I arrived at my Airbnb and was greeted by sparkling water with grenadine. I was grateful for the sugar. Michèle, my host, was extremely welcoming and told me about the city and asked why I was making my pilgrimage. I gave her a selection of reasons. She replied, “to find out about you?”

After showering I headed out into the city and found myself some falafel. Then I ended up in a slightly divey bar. Now, Reims is the capital of the Champagne region. I have walked about 450km. I think I deserved a little.

Thanks for reading!

Have a happy Monday.