A PILGRIM’S DIGRESS-ION

Sorry, linguists, for the pun. This one is meant to be the lighter side of my long walk in Spain and France, the funny side of it all –or at any rate the things which amused me, and hopefully you too.

I noted in the first two articles how I kept meeting people. They came from all over Europe and countries colonised by Europeans elsewhere (so there were French Canadians as well as English ones, so to speak). And they all kept to their national stereotypes. For instance in Spain I met two Frenchmen, with whom I became good friends. They were using the Guide Michelin to ensure they had the best meals available at each town.  (Unashamedly I kept close to them, because I like good food too).  In France, I fell in with another pair of French chaps; at one point another one joined us, and chatted to his compatriots about the beauty of the scenery in Aubrac (Massif Central, a bit like the Scottish Lowlands, but higher).  “What lovely cattle there, their caramel coloured hides, their long horns, their beautiful black eyes”. “And talking of cattle, there’s Charolais too”. “Yes, you can get lovely steaks from them, beautiful with a rich sauce and a bottle of Beaujolais”. So within two minutes of reminiscing about the glories of the countryside they were back to menus again and fine food and wine.  Do they think of nothing else?

Then I came across two young German pilgrims, who were “extreme”.  One, Karsten, was walking barefoot and sleeping under the stars – when there were stars, because actually it was pretty wet up in the hills!  He seemed very enthusiastic and driven. Another, Thomas, I met at a hostel in France.  He had walked all the way from Konstanz (Lake Constance), unable to speak a word of French or, for later, Spanish! His English was OK-ish, but unfortunately the French expect to speak French in France (most inconsiderate, quite unlike us?!!!). Still, this hostel was run by a Dutch girl, so I guess he could communicate that night at least.  Most of us on the Way had light walking gear and as light packs as possible. Thomas had set out with a leather greatcoat, a leather hat and a leather holdall slung over his shoulder. Leather, when wet, weighs a lot more, but he didn’t seem to mind.  He reckoned to walk twenty miles or more each day (my fifteen was insanely too much for me). But he was young and fit – and German. He didn’t seem to feel pain! He suggested I might walk with him the next morning. There was no way I could keep up, and I let him forge on – all the way to Santiago, 800 miles away!
 
There were lots of Germans, both in Spain and in France, largely because of the Easter, May and Pentecost holidays.  Germans have two weeks break after Pentecost, and my first two weeks in France coincided with this. Now I’ve nothing against Germans, I can speak the language a little, I like their beer and wine and their music (barring their entries for the Eurovision Song Contest).  But they do have a reputation for getting their towels down first on the beach, and the walking equivalent is block booking all the available beds in the hostels. The reason I stopped at the hostel where I met Thomas was because the place I really wanted to get to was already booked up by Germans.  (In the event, it was no bad thing, because the last mile or so to that place was down one of the worst muddy paths I’ve ever floundered in).   Nevertheless, both in Spain and France, if I came across a party of Germans stopped for lunch, I pressed on to get ahead, to try to ensure a bed for the night!

Not all German speakers are German: some are Austrian, some Italian. I met two couples from the South Tyrol (a lovely country, German wine and Italian sun!). Monica and Claudio kept meeting me in Spain.  Both (despite their names) were German speakers, and we shared several meals, which tested my ability to invent German phrases something rotten.  Then there were two chaps with very thick Tyrolean accents. At one point one of them tried to interpret for me to a Spanish lady (our hostess) to arrange drying our sodden clothes and boots. This was a classic moment of international misunderstanding.  It was pretty wet at the time, and cold, and I took a brandy with them that evening. I was a bit surprised to see that breakfast for them was also brandy – as they said, it was a cold morning!

There was Brad, the Australian, whom everyone had met at some point. Always cheerful, always stopping to make notes as he went – or to put more blister plasters on his feet.  There was another Carsten, a Dane, who introduced me to Compeed, the blister plasters, which set me on my feet again. There was a German girl who worked for the Bundesbank in Frankfurt, who seemed an unlikely walker – I suspected she hitched lifts most of the Way. And I met an absent minded English woman who managed to forget her walking stick! She was very grateful to a young French couple who reminded her that she could use her sandals if her boots hurt. Curious how much help we needed from each other!

 William Marsterson.  July 2007