The day was characterized by mud and silence. The mud is logical, given the enormous amounts of rain that has fallen on this part of France this Spring. Easily half of the trail today, an exhausting 15 miles, was a slog through two – three inches of very slippery mud. It’s the kind of clay-mud that sticks to your shoes and makes them weigh twice what they should weigh, and the kind that obliterates any traction you might have on your hiking boots, so that every step is an exercise in careful slipping and trying to avoid a catastrophic fall. (So far, so good!) It’s far more exhausting to hike in slippery mud than on dry ground, and far more unnerving.
When you see pictures of the classic medieval pilgrim, and even some of today’s pilgrims, they have a walking stick (or, today, a ski pole) with them, precisely to avoid this treacherous element of nature. But that’s not an option for me since I find that ski poles and walking sticks tire my hands – a no-no for a keyboard musician. So I spent months preparing my core muscles to twist and turn at my slightest whim so as not to need to be dependent on a pole for balance. Well, you can tell that I live in California where the bulk of my walking (Spring, Summer, and Fall) is done on dry ground. In that context, it truly is a matter of balance. But all bets are off when the ground slides out from under you. Suffice it to say, when I reached my accommodation for the night (a combination gîte and chambre d’hôte), the eight of us guests were all saying the same thing: “Beaucoup de boue” (“A lot of mud!”). And most of us had opted to end the day’s walk on the road rather than risk a fall in the mud.
I’m told that the fields of southern France are typically brown by late June, and that climate change has exacerbated France’s water supply issues. As a result, the water company (privately owned) has decided, rather than limit the amount of water people are allowed to use in the three summer months, to raise the rates for everyone, across the board, by 42% for the entire summer. My host last night explained that it is even against the law to collect rainwater from your own roof and use it in your garden. Neighbors are known to report on other neighbors who do this. What?? That makes no sense!
Well, it makes sense if you understand that lobbying is not limited to the United States, and that the water company is privately owned. They (the water companies) were able to get this legislation passed which, obviously, will greatly benefit their bottom line. It’s a sad commentary on greed at the expense mostly of poor people.
I set off at 9:30 this morning and was happy to discover that the weather promised an absence of rain. I walked for three hours to the town of Lascabane, where I stopped to have lunch. I had passed no one all day. The only lunch spot open in this town had a very friendly proprietress who told me that I was her only customer all day! No wonder I hadn’t seen anyone on the route (and only one person the day before). Towns are eerily quiet, with almost no one on the streets. I saw exactly two people on the route all day today.
All of this gives me pause to reflect on existential matters. For a fleeting moment I wondered if a major cataclysm had happened, everyone had abandoned the area, and no one had told me about it! OK, I know that sounds rather extreme, but loneliness has its own logic, or lack thereof.
That, combined with a complete and total absence of anyone seen working in any of the fields for the two days I’ve been walking, and you kind of wonder what’s going on. At least I did.
This was illuminated for me in conversation at dinner, which I was happy to note had seven other people roughly my own age or greater. As it turns out, the majority of farmers in France (and likely the U.S., as well) were born in the 1950s (my generation). They are rapidly retiring, yet not leaving the farm to their children to maintain because their children aren’t interested. The result: Thirty percent of the farmland is abandoned right now.
Wow! I didn’t think I was going to get a lesson in geopolitics, but I’m completely fascinated by how rapidly the world is changing all around us.
Fifteen miles of quite an exhausting slog through the mud brought me to the beautiful medieval town of Montcuq. The sun was shining brightly at 4:15, the white stone houses stood sentry in the pristine streets, and I had just opted NOT to walk another eight miles to get to my point of rest, but instead, to take a taxi. (Hey! Why not? I figured it was the wisest course of action and would insure that I would arrive in time for a shower and dinner. It was perhaps the best 28 € I’ve ever spent.) I visited, like I had several times already today, the two main churches of Montcuq, saying a prayer, and conscious of why I’m doing this trip at all: To make intercession for my beloved friends and family.
And it is that task of interceding that has proved to be the secret key to avoid slipping into existential melancholy. I recommend it.
©2024, Jonathan Dimmock