Pilgrim's Progress – Long Distance Walks in Europe and the UK

Journeys end in lovers meeting,
Every wise man’s son doth know.

William Shakespeare – Twelfth Night Act 2 Scene 3

At the beginning of the day I made a deal with myself. If I and my boots made it safely to the Hotel d’Angleterre at Le Grau-du-Roi, I would treat myself to lobster and a bottle of chablis for supper!

I woke at 3am and slept fitfully thereafter. It wasn’t the fact that there were any particularly loud snorers disturbing my slumber, more the fact that the approaching end to my walk generated a swarm of conflicting emotions; the anticipation of reaching my final destination; the satisfaction of having completed my schedule as planned; the anticipation of returning home to see Olivia and Puzzle after such a long time away; and the bittersweet realisation that I wouldn’t be embarking on another walk in France for at least 6-7 months.

Long distance walking is addictive. Like any drug, withdrawal symptoms are inevitable. Its difficult to replicate the unadulterated enjoyment that each day’s walking challenge brings, probably because real life is a bit more challenging and complicated than simply walking from a to b each day, eating and sleeping.

Getting back to basics is healthy once in a while. As if one is returning to the hunter gatherer lifestyle of our ancestors rather than being permanently plugged into the world of social media with its incessant demands on our time. Long distance walking allows you to exist in a meditative bubble for a while, shielded from reality. But then it is time to emerge, like a butterfly from a chrysalis, and rejoin reality. As a sign at the end of the Spanish Camino at Finisterre there is a sign which says: “And now the real Camino begins!”

However, more immediate challenges lay in the day ahead. How exactly to walk 40km to Le Grau-du-Roi without any map or guidebook to assist me. I would be ‘flying blind’. I just hoped the path was well signposted. If all else failed, I would just head towards the sea, say a quiet prayer to the Good Lord and think of that lobster and chablis that hopefully awaited me on the Med!

Eric, the ‘hospitalier’ of the gite could be heard in the adjoining room, preparing breakfast. The coffee percolator was gurgling like a badly blocked sink. It was 6.30am. Hopefully I could be up, fed, packed and out of the door by 7.30am. The weather for the day ahead was set fair and I was straining at the leash to be on my way for one final time.

Breakfast took a little longer than expected, partly due to my chatting to Oscar, a young Frenchman from Lille who was walking the Chemin d’Arles and hoped to arrive in Compostella by the end of October. Outward going and as engaging as an exuberant cocker spaniel, Oscar’s English was excellent as was his Swedish. I gave him some tips about places to stay on the Chemin d’Arles as well as a link to my blog and wished him well on his walk.

Nobody in Saint Gilles-du-Gard seemed to have much of a clue about how far away Le Grau-du-Roi was. The best estimate was somewhere between 30-40 km away.

I soon made my way onto the canal of Rhone to Sète. The flimsy map the tourist office in Saint Gilles-du-Gard had given me, suggested that following it would take me all the way to Le Grau-du-Roi.

The only slight problem was that a hunt was in progress when I arrived at the canal and a couple of errant hounds that I encountered were initially unsure whether or not I was the hunters’ intended quarry!

There then followed 5 hours of canal walking. Not my favourite past time if I have to be brutally honest, particularly when the mercury is in the high 20s!

Surprisingly, the canal is still used by commercial vessels ferrying stuff like coal.

There was only one minor settlement called Gallicien between Saint Gilles-du-Gard and Aigues-Mortes. I arrived there shortly after 1pm to find a table and bench. It seemed the ideal opportunity to take a break and have some tinned mackerel in mustard and grated carrots.

No soon had I started consuming my pilgrim fare than a familiar figure hove into view – Périne! When I had left Saint Gilles she’d been worried about being able to make it to Aigues-Mortes in one go as accommodation options in Gallicien appeared non existent!

We had a brief chat – it transpired that she had narrowly avoided being potted by one of the hunters I had passed. 10 minutes or so behind me, a wild boar had suddenly emerged from a thicket beside the canal. It had proceeded to swim across the canal whereupon it had been polished by a volley of shots from one of the hunters lurking in the undergrowth! The statistics on the number of innocent bystanders who are accidentally killed by hunters in France makes for grim reading!

I decided to leave Périne to her own devices and motor on to Aigues-Mortes. The good news was that the distance to Le Grau-du-Roi was 35km rather than 40km as I had feared.

Shortly afterwards I bumped into a group of Swiss cyclists who kindly offered to take my photo after I divulged that I had walked all the way from Geneva.

What didn’t go down so well was my revelation that I had once worked for UBS! There was general rolling of eyes and I got the impression that this news had gone down like a proverbial lead balloon!

I’d had high hopes of Aigues-Mortes. On paper it looked idyllic. A fortified medieval town whence Saint Louis had twice embarked on Crusade to the Holy Land in the 13th century. Throw pink flamingoes into the mix and you have all tbe ingredients for a magical detour around tbe medieval battlements of Aigues-Mortes.

The reality of Aigues-Mortes was deeply disappointing. It is actually a tourist trap of mind boggling tackiness. When I arrived the medieval enclave was heaving with tourists. It was difficult to move through tbe heaving masses, most of whom sermed to be over 70 and from various parts of France or northern Europe.The only pink flamingoes I could see were the fluffy toys being sold by tbe merchandise vendors which lined the narrow medieval streets. I briefly thought about buying Puzzle a purple flamingo before having second thoughts, turning on my heel and heading on to Le Grau-du-Roi.

I eventually made it to Le Grau-du-Roi shortly after 4.30pm having run the gauntlet of an unceasing stream of cyclists most of whom seemed extremely aged and rather over weight. Judging from the snippets of conversation I picked up, many seemed to hail from Northern Europe, particularly Germany and Holland.

The Hotel d’Angleterre looked good on paper but it had clearly seen better times. The bed in my room was as hard as a rock and a loose screw meant I could rotate the loo seat 90 degrees! But at least there was hot water, and even if the 24/7 outside hotel restaurant seemed to have closed for the season, the hotel was extremely well located.

It was great to finally have made it all the way from Lake Geneva. I ambled down to the beach and dipped my toe in the water. Like childhood visits to see my grandmother in Polzeath, way too cold to risk further immersion in the sea – spoilt after a childhood spent roaming the beaches of Ceylon and enjoying the warmth of the Indian Ocean!

I worked out the final tally for my walk- 653km walked in 19 days at an average of 35km a day. Apart from a minor blister early on, no major health issues. Fine weather for most of the time apart from one grim morning when the heavens opened and I was soaked to the bone. A plethora of happy memories, fascinating encounters, varied landscapes, enchanting isolated communities and enough uplufting memories to last me until my next adventure.

And the lobster and chablis? Le Grau-du-Roi was flooded with sea food restaurants serving everything from cod and chips, to moules marinières and octopus. The only thing they didn’t run to was lobster! Why? Because lobster comes from the Atlantic not the Med! Tail between my legs I headed off for an Italian meal of spaghetti carbonara and some Lambrusco. The best laid plans of mice and men gang aft agley!

Time then to say a few thank- yous. To all those who valiantly read my daily blogs.It was a huge encouragement to know that there were people out there in cyberspace vicariously following my progress. To all the wonderful hosts who accommodated me on my walk and were so generous with their hospitality. And, last but not least, Olivia for giving me ‘French leave’ to go off on another mad jaunt while she dutifully kept the home fires burning and kept the show on tbe road in my absence.