Water, many ways: Besançon to Lausanne

I had succumbed to something of a malaise in Besançon. I was tired, the skies were relentlessly grey and the bed I was in squeaked and was more uncomfortable than my sleeping mat. I imprudently spent my time and had drunk too much red wine on my first night. I did not feel hugely rejuvenated and was ready to depart the grey city.

My route took me back through the centre of town. I was early enough to join binmen and morning commuters on the streets. I felt like I was sneaking out of the city before it had properly woken and  could catch me. On the route out, I passed under a magnificent Roman arch. I had seen it yesterday. I had even walked under it yesterday. But this time, with my boots and backpack, it felt like more of a crossing. I was using the archway as an archway: passing through.

The skies were overcast but not too threatening. A light grey that suggested rain was unlikely. The path was to continue up through the hills that Besancon nestles in. It took me past Chapelle des Buis, where I had stayed with the Franciscans a couple of nights previously.

As I climbed the steep hill, on muddy paths, I began to graze the low clouds. Mist became a little denser. The climb was tough but at the start of the day it didn’t feel at all dispiriting.

It took me about an hour or so to reach the chapel that the taxi had took me to in less than fifteen minutes. I don’t regret that taxi. Much more though, I don’t regret walking up on that day. As the chapel neared, the Stations of the Cross labelled by the side of the path. The steep hill felt appropriately like Calvary.

And then, I re-entered the chapel. It was exactly the same. The same beautiful lighting. The same gentle architecture. And yet, the physicality of the ascent had also transformed it. It was now a haven. Perhaps a heaven. I sat in the chapel for a while and delighted in the peace. I rejuvenated. It seemed to me a paradigm for the effort of pilgrimage. How we arrive somewhere can completely transform how we perceive it.

Continuing, I passed through more woodland for about an hour before descending the hill, crossing a major roundabout and then walking down a minor road for quite a distance. I passed through a couple of villages and then took a wrong turning next to a small airport and had to re-trace my steps, always a frustrating business.

The inclines and declines were noticeabley steeper. I have since learned that Besancon is on the edge of the Jura mountain range. This range was to play an important part in my walking for the next few days. This change in gradient also meant that arable farmland began to decrease and become replaced with pasture. Cows became a more and more familiar sight.

For the last ten kilometres of that day, into the town of Ornans, I followed a disused railway. At one point I had to pass through a long tunnel that was completely unlit. The tunnel curved gently to the right which had a very peculiar effect on experiencing it. Due to the curvature, absolutely no light reached the tunnel’s right hand side. There was a very dim outline to the left but on the other side was complete, disorientating darkness. It felt as if the world totally dropped away. I had no sense of where the ground was and trod carefully.

The old railway track was balanced on the edge of the Loue valley. It was strikingly beautiful with steep forested sides that plunged dramatically. I followed the valley for the next three days and it was the most beautiful scenery I have experienced so far.

I arrived into the outskirts of Ornans, went to a supermarket and met a woman who had walked the Francigena with her daughter over the course of four years. On the way out I saw a warehouse for a company called Emmaus. It felt like an appropriate omen strangely conveyed.

It is only since then I have considered the true relevance of the Emmaus story in relation to pilgrimage. We do not know who we walk with and what they might be able to teach us.

Ornans is very charming. It’s a small town based on the river Loue. When I arrived on the main square there were people playing boules. I headed just out of the town to a ‘luxury’ campsite that offered a generous discount to pilgrims. When I arrived I found it almost deserted. I was also slightly disappointed entry to the swimming pool was not included in special rates.

I cooked, washed, ate and settled down for an early night. I had walked just over thirty kilometres and my feet were a little sore from the new boots. I slept soundly.

The next morning I didn’t get up particularly early. I didn’t have far to go: about fifteen kilometres further down the river.

When I woke up in the campsite there was a dense mist. The gorgeous hillsides that I had seen the day before were hiding behind it. The weather forecast for the past few days had shown non-stop rain-clouds and thunderstorms. I was a little apprehensive. I was glad I didn’t have far to go. However, just as I was setting off the mist began to clear.

By the time I had been walking for forty-five minutes the sun was fully out. The sky was blue and I didn’t believe it could possibly rain. I ambled along by the river, stopping often.

After seven kilometres I reached the village of Vuillafans. People were smiling at me and I returned them back to them. I decided I’d make a stop. I crossed the river bridge and bought a couple of hundred grams of Comté (it was the region after all) from a man with a little stall.

Just at the bridge was a small bar with tables outside in the shade. I only had another hour and a half or so of walking to go; I bought myself a beer.

I got chatting to a couple who were sitting across from me. They were probably in their late sixties or early seventies and were chain smoking delightfully. I was in no hurry. Our conversation was incremental: a few words every few minutes at first but eventually I had moved to sit with them.

They were Claudio and Ariane. They were on holiday from Switzerland, staying in the campsite just the other side of the river. Claudio was from Chile but had lived in Switzerland for more than thirty years. He had a very pronounced tremor. It was both of their second marriages.

We talked about my journey and about their family. Claudio bought me a second beer. They told me how much cheaper France was. They said the campsite was especially good value and the owners were very nice. There was a car show the next day. There would be music and dancing, Ariane said. She suggested I stayed. The sun was shining so brightly and the village was so beautiful it only took the course of drinking my second beer to agree. I asked if you could swim in the river. ‘No,’ said Claudio ‘but there are showers.’

Soon, the owners of the campsite had pulled up in their car. They were Bruno and Corinne. Corinne looked like a grown up Pippy Longstockings and everyone called her Coco. ‘A new recruit?’ she asked Ariane.

They had a dog called Nemo who was six months old and going through a chewing phase: he was on his fourth lead of the day.

Another round of drinks was suggested. It was barely noon so I put my hand over my glass. ‘Why not? You’re staying.’ I relented. I went to get my wallet out but my hand was swatted away with surprising force.

Bruno told me that Coco spoke good English. She had lived in New York for two years. She had only had a holiday visa for two weeks. They had banned her from returning for ten years. She looked a bit embarrassed and said ‘it was a long time ago’.

The third round finished, Ariane invited me back to the campsite for lunch with them. They were grilling meat. I confessed my vegetarianism and was, in turn, told there were salads.

We walked over the bridge together slowly. I leant Ariane my hiking poles and she seemed pretty pleased with them. There was a slight pause before my lunch in which time I managed to wash my socks and t-shirt in a basin and Bruno managed to take a large chunk out of his motorhome’s front left wheel arch. There was a loud crunch and Coco yelled at him to stop. The campsite was totally flat. I still have no idea how he did it.

Then, a bottle of Rosé from Provenance was opened. I offered up my Comté and a baguette I had bought in the morning. There was an aperitif phase where I had to restrain myself from eating all the cheese: I hadn’t had breakfast.

The rosé, which was perfectly dry, was finished quite quickly on account of there being five of us. A bottle of red and another pink were opened. The meat was grilled. I was asked if I was sure I didn’t want some. Perhaps just a taste? I was very happy with the tomato and potato salads. The potatos was actually sublime. Ariane thanked Swiss cuisine which Coco disputed slightly, saying it was really just French. In either case, it was the tastiest thing I had eaten in at least two weeks. The secret she said, was to make it when the potatoes were hot. The meat, it turned out, was horse. Very good for your health, I was told.

Claudio put on some music and in a few minutes was loudly singing along to Frank Sinatra’s ‘My Way’.Bruno went to hang out with Nemo in the shade. The energy gently faded as it ought to at a sunny, lazy lunch. I said I’d quite like to go for a walk. Coco told me such activity was forbidden and I should instead take a siesta. I went to lie in my tent for an hour or so.

I revived myself and discovered the tent had become something of a greenhouse. I crossed over the bridge again, hoping to visit the church but it was shut. My legs wanted stretching and I had been eyeing the sides of the valleys ever since I had started walking across the Loue. I saw a sign that indicated a viewing point: a village a few kilometres away. In fear of the boredom of returning to a completely sober state, I bought a beer from a small shop and headed up the side of the valley.

Writing this blog my vocabulary of the landscape has been stretched to its limit. I have used the word ‘ridge’ a lot. What I climbed that afternoon was a ridge but it was considerably higher than any of the other times I have used that word. Nonetheless, free from my rucksack and wearing trainers, I took long strides up the side of the hill. A couple of times I lost the path and scrambled up the slope, grappling with thin trunks.

The track cut across a road that wound slowly up the hill, taking five kilometres.  The pathway about halved the distance. After half an hour or so, I reached the village, Echevannes. The back of my shirt was wet with sweat: I had been working harder than I realised.

The view was spectacular. I could see the snake of the river and the deep, sunken impression it had affected on the landscape. Everywhere was trees. There was a small chapel. I quickly visited it then sat on a bench and drank my can of beer.

Echevannes didn’t quite mark the top of that ridge. I followed a road, looking for the summit. Half a kilometre further on there was a statue of St Francis, arms spread wide, on the edge of the hillside. Behind him, what looked like the top of the hill. I unlooped a barbed wire fence and headed past Francis. There was no path, I crossed some ambiguous pastureland.

Just before the summit, there was a patch of trees. The exact point of peak was unclear but I certainly didn’t reach it. I was satisfied by proximity.

I thought about waiting for sunset, only a couple of hours away. Then I realised trying to make it down in the darkness would not be the brightest idea. In light, I managed to remain on the path for the duration of the descent.

I returned to the campsite. I put some pasta on to boil and spoke to Claudio and Ariane. They invited me for coffee after I’d eaten. I had bought a bottle of wine at the shop because I felt I owed them and suggested it. Ariane said she had drank too much.

I ate my pasta cross-legged next to my tiny stove. It’s funny being in a campsite because you feel as if you are performing the role of camper to those who can see you. I definitely behave differently unwatched.

After eating, I strolled the 20 metres to their caravan. Claudio is there. He asks me where the wine is. I return to get it.

We chat for a while. The sun sets. Ariane has some wine too. Then Claudio begins to talk of music. I was intrigued so I asked him about it. He goes to the front seat of their van and retrieve a guitar. ‘No’, says Ariane, ‘its too late.’ Claudio protests. Ariane relents: just one. He plays a lament. His tremor lessens considerably. It is about Che Guevara. It is quite beautiful. His voice is powerful and raw. Occasionally it is quiet but more often it erupts into the trumpet that Ariane thinks will disturbs the neighbours.

Claudio then plays an Argentinian song followed by a Chilean waltz. The whole time, Ariane is caught between telling him off and giggling at his antics. It is clear she is particularly keen on the music from Chile. I am struck by their love and familiarity for one another. Then, Claudio pulls a harmonica out of the guitar bag. Soon, Ariane is on harmonica, Claudio playing guitar and I am singing ‘Oh when the Saints go Marching In’.

The bottle of red wine slowly empties. Ariane’s protestations get more sincere. It becomes clear Claudio is actually quite drunk. He encourages the finishing of the bottle. I feel as if I have misbehaved. When not playing the guitar, Claudio’s tremor reoccurs, much worse.

I want to sing a song for the evening. One echoes in my memory. A German song I used to sing as a chorister which translates as ‘Abide with us’. Here it is in full. It is the Emmaus disciples’ words to Christ at the end of the road: “Abide with us: for it is toward evening, and the day is far spent.”

I couldn’t, however, remember more than the first few words that evening. Instead, I changed the topic away from music, agreeing it had become too late for singing. Things progressed more calmly. Eventually, I excused myself, although they invited me to watch TV with them, I said it was my time for bed.

There is a Jack Kerouac quotation that I have been obsessed with since I read it in the early stages of the walk: ‘let us sleep by water and purify our ears’. I had been desperate to find a river to sleep next to for weeks. I had slept next to a marsh just outside of Reims but it hadn’t quite been the experience I had been hoping for. Although the campsite wasn’t perhaps quite the primal engagement Kerouac had in mind, the river was delightfully audible from my tent. A powerful gushing noise accompanied my sleep.

I woke the next day. I did think about staying for the car show but it would mean spending another night in Vuillafans. I was still slightly ahead of my schedule but wanted to maintain some contingency. Plus, the car show had a confederate flag flying and looked like it might be populated by bikers. I thought it probably wasn’t my scene.

I packed up my tent quite late. I said goodbye to Claudio and Ariane who looked a little disappointed that I was leaving. I tried to find Coco to pay but she hadn’t arrived yet. I went to the shop to buy breakfast and kicked my heels till she arrived. It was seven euros but she scooped two euros back into my hand saying ‘for the bread.’ I was a bit sad to leave the little paradise on the banks of the Loue but knew that setting of any later would be foolish.

On the way out of the village I was given directions by a man who stopped me for about half an hour to tell me about his holiday in the UK. It mainly consisted of him naming cities and landmarks in a French accent then me trying to decipher them before nodding enthusiastically. I finally made my excuses and rejoined the road.

With the early stop at Vuillafans, I planned to do about thirty two kilometres to reach Pontarlier that day. The route, however, was trickier than I thought.  It began by rocking up either side of the valley, climbing and descending for apparently little reason into some fantastically picturesque villages.

The climbs were enjoyable but they sapped my energy, particularly as the day was hot. It took about two hours to get to the place I had planned to stop at the previous night. It was looking like it was going to be a long day.

The next stage was a climb directly up to the source of the Loue, alongside the gorge. The path was incredibly steep and at points quite tricky to cross. The gorge had several mini-tributaries flowing down its sides that over-ran the footpath. Sometimes these made the footpath a little wet but just as often it was like attempting to ford a stream on the side of cliff.

It took me about an hour and a half to walk the three and a half kilometres up to the gorge. It was a lot slower than I had calculated. I ate my lunch at the source: a gushing fountain out of the cliffside that was something of a tourist attraction. Just as I was finishing the sky changed colour and promised rain.

My experience with precipitation over the past few weeks has taught me only one thing in the art of prediction: it is all but pointless. The grey sky could hold off for hours or could burst imminently.

I pushed on, keen to reach Pontarlier before too much water fell. I had about eighteen kilometres to go.

The gradient of the path remained steep. My pace persisted in being slow. I had walked about another three kilometres when the sky burst. I was a few hundred metres from a forest. I put my head down and marched up a helpfully labelled 13% incline.

The storm offered up hailstones that immediately burst into freezing water when they hit you. I had visions of arriving in Pontarlier in the evening looking drowned. It would take me at least another three hours to reach the town. I headed off the path and pitched my tent quickly in the rain under the best cover I could find.

I bundled my things and myself in, dried off the interior with my towel and sat there, waiting out the rain. I realised that perhaps the alcohol the day before had had more of an effect than I realised. I slept for a couple of hours. When I woke up it was around six o’clock. The rain had mostly stopped but I had no desire to continue walking. I made myself a cheese sandwich as dinner and read for a while.

Later, I watched the sunset through the portal of my tent door. Everything looked calm and peaceful. That night, however, for the first time I dreamt of an axe murderer stumbling on my tent. For some reason I had lost a little confidence in my safety.

The next day I was walking by seven o’clock. The forecast continued to predict awful weather and so I had booked myself into the youth hostel in Pontarlier.

The hills continued on the way into the town and I was glad I hadn’t persisted the day before. I would have struggled.

The fifteen kilometres through forest and farmland passed quickly. Dandelion clocks had mostly lost all their seeds at this point of late spring. Houses were beginning to look a lot more Swiss. It was a Sunday so nearly all the shops were shut. I managed to find a discount supermarket where I stocked up on supplies for the next couple of days.

On the main road into the city I saw Paul and his familiar baseball cap. I shouted and did a sort of dance at him. He crossed the road and embraced me with a wide grin. He then shook his head and told me he had had a tough week: the hills and the rain. We agreed to meet for a drink at 2 o’clock: it was only 11.

I arrived at the youth hostel to find it shut. The reception wasn’t open on Sundays apparently. There was a number to call, however. The familiar ‘no answer’ replied to me. I left a message. Luckily, one of the other guests let me in. Inside I found Danny who had stayed the previous night and was deciding whether to leave or not. Pontarlier was clearly the place for reunions.

I spent the rest of the morning sewing and duct taping bits of my kit that had fallen apart. Danny dallied and enjoyed the sofa. I eventually invited him to the drink with Paul. I explained that Paul was a little ‘taciturn’ but intriguing.

Pontarlier used to be the distilling hub of absinthe before the ban and since it has been lifted has seen a resurgence. I felt it appropriate to try some. I’m not a big aniseed fan so I don’t know why I thought this was a good idea.

We talked about the routes we had all taken the past few days. Me and Danny have the same book but Paul had gone north of the gorge. Paul told me he had thought that I would be in Switzerland by now.

After an hour of conviviality we went our separate ways. I shook hands again with Paul, unable to commit to a goodbye since we seemed prone to crossing paths. At that point I got a phone from the youth hostel manager. He told me the reception wasn’t open on Sunday afternoons. I told him I had been there at 11am. He told me he would come and let me in.

I spent the long afternoon lazily, watching some television and eventually trying to write. A woman came into the common room. She asked for some money so she could buy dinner. Four euros, she asked. I said I couldn’t help. I’m not sure why I said it. I hate myself for having said it. I have been shown so much generosity and refused to show some in return. I promised to be different.

I was sharing my room with a man from Japan. He told me he was seventy-three. He was on a road-trip round Europe. He named all the cities he had been to. It was taking him three months.

In the morning the hostel provided a breakfast of cereals and bread. I filled up with food and coffee and got going as early as I could. Rain was again forecast but I was determined to cross the Swiss border that day.

The route followed a disused railway for a long time. It then went up to the Fort De Joux, a border castle that resides on a rocky outcrop. There were some goats busying themselves nearby the ruins but I scared them and they leapt quickly to disappear. The height of the fort offered an amazing view and made Switzerland seem incredibly tantalisingly close.

Descending from that hill was a little hairy: there as an exceptionally narrow path along the edge of a very steep slope that was really more of a drop. Mountain bike tracks on the path bore testament to  some very brave cyclists.

The route returned to a disused railway. I have followed several of these in the past month. They’re flat and grassy and without any railway tracks. However, this day, tracks did appear and I found myself walking alongside the railway line on very chunky gravel. The largeish stones made walking difficult so I began to use the sleepers like stepping stones.

They were spaced slightly wider than my stride so I felt like I was skipping along and the footing was certainly much better than the gravel. Of course, however, I slipped. I fell sideways and grazed my left hand on the gravel. For a few moments, the weight of my backpack pinned me to the tracks.

I pushed myself up, and found there was a little blood but no serious damage. I continued to walk, to the side of the sleepers. I followed that track for about ten kilometres. I was nearing the border.

The railway passed a field of cows that I heard before I saw. Each one wore a cow bell and the resulting cacophony was audible from a great distance. I wondered how the cows felt about their noisy existence.

I passed through a penultimate village and then, reaching the final one, saw a camping store on my map. My inflatable pillow had a slow puncture and was proving a little useless: I wanted a new one. It said on the internet they were shut on Mondays but I tried them on the phone nonetheless. A man said he’d open for me.

I arrived at the shop and was greeted by a yapping dog. I explained what I wanted, having found the word for ‘pillow’ online. It became clear that his shop was mainly for caravan accessories like large batteries and septic tanks. He and his wife couldn’t have been nicer though. They were a bit shocked when I told them where I was going and where I had come from and put a basket of chocolates under my nose. When I took one they insisted I took several and checked that I had enough water.

I left the shop and moved further down into the village. I was about four kilometres from the border. I stopped at the bar for a final French beer. It had been spitting with rain for the past half hour.

Just after I had left the village it began to rain. It rained the sort of rain that gets very bad very quickly but in stages that you are convinced can’t get any worse each time before they proceed to get much worse. It was completely drenching. Within a minute my trousers were soaked. I was quite startled by it. I moaned ‘oh no oh no oh no oh no’ to myself as I ran down the hill. I had seen a sign for a chapel, ten minutes away.

It appeared on my left and although the gate looked shut I ran towards it. There was a line of barbed wire which I threw my bag and myself under, briefly snagging my t-shirt. The gate was thankfully unlocked and I managed to tuck myself under the eave of the chapel. The few minutes had been too long. I was drenched.

I tried the door to the chapel itself and found it open. It dragged myself inside and sat on a pew. It turned out to be a 12th century chapel with a 9th century crypt. Quite an amazing refuge. It also had some birds living in it who had made a nest in one of the candle alcoves.

There was a woman outside the chapel standing in its wake, with a black umbrella over her head. I moved towards the door and she came to speak to me. She had a little foam in her mouth between her gums and lower teeth. She spoke quickly and I discerned little. I think she might have been telling me about her grandchildren who had insisted on staying home.

I thought I had offended her by being unresponsive but when the rain had died down a little and she went to leave she waved heartily at the gate and blew me a kiss.

I remained in the chapel. The rain would fade and then crescendo again. There was no way I wanted to walk in it. I thought I might have to sleep in the chapel. I wondered if it was sacrilegious. The floor of the chapel was almost entirely made of gravestones. Would I disturb ghosts?

Thankfully, after two or three hours the sky completely cleared and became bright blue. I saddled myself and left the chapel. The road was steaming with evaporated rain.

I had had ideas of cracking open a Kroebunburg and singing La Marseillaise at the French border but when it arrived it was so understated that any such ceremony would have felt ridiculous. I took a photo and walked calmly into Switzerland.

I continued for another five or so kilometres before I came to the vestiges of a Roman Road. It looked like it had been cut into the rock, which it probably had. Again, it felt like a special moment of crossing and reunion with the ghosts of pilgrims past. I decided to make camp near to it.

That night I didn’t sleep very well. I was perhaps a bit too hot but there were also a murder (the correct collective noun) of crows that cawed unpleasantly into the night. I was close to buildings and was anxious about being discovered. Or perhaps it was those pilgrim ghosts, desiring communion.

The restless night made for a very early start. I surprised myself by walking just after six o’clock. For someone who struggled to make 9am seminars last year, this is a considerable achievement.

I began by passing adjacent to a motorway. On the road there was a stopped police car, just a little further on was the carcass of a mountain goat that had been struck by a car. Its abdomen looked full.

I rounded a corner on that same road and in front of me swept out a vast countryside. Far in the distance was the spectre of the alps. I even thought I could discern the Matterhorn.

There was a choice of routes. Sigeric has continued east to the ancient city of Ornans. I, however, was keen to visit the site of an old Cluniac abbey in a village called Romainmôtier. They weren’t in opposite directions but the abbey was further south.

I made my way to the abbey across pastureland where I saw more belled cows. The going was very pleasant and due to my early start I had reached the abbey just after nine. As I arrived, some ecumenical prayers were just concluding and I was disappointed to have missed them.

The abbey itself, however, did not disappoint. It has some stunning examples of church wall painting that I have never seen the like of before. The building itself is late tenth century and the wall painting and frescos comes from the fourteenth. It was constructed from a heavy stone that felt like it declared safety. I stayed there for half an hour or so, drinking the ancient splendour.

Then, I walked on. I followed a water channel out of the village. I walked past peoples’ allotments. The plan was to return to Sigeric’s route and go to Ornans. However, shortly after leaving Romainmôtier, the path headed north. It felt quite unnatural to be walking north. I checked my map again and realised that the return to the Ornans would make for a very long day the next day. It would result in a very winding route. I quickly researched a campsite between myself and Lausanne, south, and began to head towards it.

I used Google maps’ slowest route, avoiding major roads. Happily, it took me on one of the most delightful paths I have so far encountered. After a few kilometres looping back on concrete tracks, it zig-zagged me down a steep hill away from a field. At the bottom of this descent was an immense water fall, perhaps 30 feet tall. The sound of crashing water was exhilarating.

I stared at the point at which the water plunged into the water. It threw up thick white foam and a gentle mist. I dropped my bag and walked to the edge of this pool. I could feel the spray. I took off my clothes I waded in, wanting to touch the site of the plunge.

The closer I got, the thicker the spray was. The sound was a roaring torrent. It became deep very quickly and I was past my waist. I reached my hand into the froth but it was difficult to breathe so close to crashing water: a mixture of the displaced air and high water content. I rushed back to the pool’s edge, plunging my head underwater in a baptismal gesture.

I stood by the side of the pool in my towel, shivering. The whole area was in shade and it was quite cool. I turned to look at the waterfall again, jealously. Once again, I waded into the pool and more calmly tried to reach the place where the water met the water. I was calmer this time but still couldn’t make it further than the edge of the white froth.

I dried myself and redressed. I was not meant to touch the torrent.

I continued walking downstream and further along found a patch of river completely covered by sunlight. Here I re-entered the river and washed. I reacquainted myself with a more gentle flow.

It took me another hour of blissful walking through that woodland valley to reach the campsite at La Sarraz.

The main attraction there was a swimming complex with the campsite really acting as a bit of an add-on. It was a little more expensive than I hoped but, I was told, it did include entry to the pool.

The day continued to shine brightly and after some lunch I did make my way to the pool. There were, in fact, three of them. I did a few lengths in the Olympic sized one and then sunned myself on some grass for a couple of hours. There were a couple of boys who were jumping off the two diving boards.

I climbed the taller one: three metres. It doesn’t sound particularly high but when I was up the I was actually quite nervous. I retreated and let the boys go a few more times. Then I did jump, feet first, being embarrassed of my fear in front of these twelve year olds. Next, after waiting my turn, I reascended to properly dive. I clearly did something wrong as I painfully hit my lower half. I climbed out and limped back to the grass, done with water for the day.

Sleep was found easily and the next day I was walking again shortly after six. I had found out that the official Swiss Francigena actually ran through La Sarraz but then it took a lengthy route alongside the Venoge river, following it to Lake Geneva, a few kilometres east of Lausanne. I decided I would follow this official route until I got tired and could then divert to the city.

There were an initial few hours following a straight water channel and across tarmac alongside fields. These were a bit of a chore particularly as the sky was overcast and occasionally spitting rain.

Soon, however, the path reached the river and re-met with woodland. The smell of wild garlic filled my nostrils. It’s the same smell that fills the woodland in which I walk my dog. I became a bit obsessed with following the river downstream. I would stick to small paths that ran close alongside it. If the official route would steer away I would choose to stay by the river’s side, knowing it would take me to the lake eventually.

Often this was not the best policy. I would get lost and disorientated by meanders, having to retrace my path.  There was a point where the path by the riverside faltered and was hugely overgrown by nettles. I discerned an old path and resurrected it by bashing down the nettles childishly with my hiking poles. Eventually the narrow path led to a circle of sand and stopped at the water’s edge. Perhaps it had been the site of a fire a few years ago. Someone had wanted to reach it once. It didn’t lead any further.

It was impossible to remain too stuck, however: I just had to follow the flow of the water.

I did this for several hours, occasionally having to leave the river for the road. The path was long and my feet did begin to ache, however, returning to the waterside for the final stretched cheered me. So too did the occasional aroma of elderflower. Bushes were blooming and scented the path.

I passed a group of children by a weir. It looked like their grandparents were throwing them a party. They were roasting sausages on a fire. A couple of hundred metres upstream was a den made by older children some time beforehand. It was the sort of den I had always dreamed of making but had never achieved.

Eventually, the river became calmer and more tamed. The presence of boats indicated the closeness of the lake. The river met the lake unassumingly, in a way that I was a little disappointed by. I had expected some dramatic union.

I turned left and began to follow the lake’s edge. I came to the suburb of Saint Sulpice which has an 11th century church not dissimilar to that at Romainmôtier. It too had been an abbey and had some amazing examples of wall painting. When I entered, it was only lit by its stained glass, beautiful in its half light.

I stayed for a while but my feet were aching and I was keen to reach my stopping point. I walked round the edge of the lake for another forty five minutes and arrived at my campsite on the lake shore.

I showered and pitched my tent and headed into the city.

Lausanne is perhaps the coolest city I’ve visited. Everyone dresses incredibly well and makes me a bit embarrassed of my hiking clothes.

I walked around the city and visited the cathedral. It used to be a major pilgrimage site itself and is very majestic.

Then, I headed down some steps and found a bar where people were enjoying the last of the day’s weather. The place served pints which seemed like a bucket compared to the 25cl I had become accustomed to. I sat, overlooking the city and the lake and began typing up this post. I returned to my campsite and slept calmly.

Waking the next morning I was greeted by glorious sunshine. I am spending the day in Lausanne. I finish typing this post adjacent to the lake. I’m going to try and go for a sail later on this morning. All is well.

 

Thanks, as ever, for reading.