Voie d’Arles: Day 1 Pibrac to L’Isle Jordain

Voie D’Arles

Day 1 Pibrac to L’Isle Jordain

41,268 steps or 19.2 miles (according to my iPhone, probably exaggerated somewhat).

First days of walking are usually difficult and contain some surprises.  This one was no exception.  We left our hotel in Toulouse, with what I thought was time to spare to grab coffee and croissants and perhaps even a sandwich for the road at the train station.  On the way, I looked at our tickets and realized I’d mixed up our departure and arrival times. We had just over 20 minutes rather than 40 to catch the train.  We sprinted as much as two overweight persons in their mid seventies can sprint wearing nearly 15-pound backpacks.  We managed to find the gate for the train, and entered empty cars. Eventually a handful of others arrived, some carrying their coffee.  We were on the right train, not some fantasy train to another world.

When my boot had unlaced itself during our race to the station, and I’d bent to fix it, my hydration pack spewed water all over me.  I knew it tended to be leaky, but it now it was really unusable.  I held the the hose above the pack for the duration of the ride.  We exited at the deserted Pribac station.  By looking at a map posted at the station and consulting the pages torn from our Miam-Miam Dodo, we figured the town center was uphill and to the right.  We found a bar, the only open business in the town, where were able to get croissants, coffee, and orange juice, for 5 E each.  While we waited for breakfast I pulled out my hydration pack, emptied it on  flower  box outside the door and put the whole contraption in a dumpster across the street.

Following detailed directions on a handout from the pilgrim office in Toulouse, we found our first camino and Grand Randonee  653 signs in front of the closed Basilica of Saint Germaine, who had lived her short life in Pibrac.  Minutes later we met Yvonne, who paused her car to wait for us to cross a small street, and asked us to pray for her in Compostelle.  She explained in gestures and in what I’m sure was perfect French her ailment,   I took her hand and I promised to pray for her as I walked.  

At the bottom of a hill, we crossed the tracks again, where signs in 2 directions pointed to Compostelle.  We could see from our map that one took a longer route through the Forest of Bauconne, and the other a somewhat shorter route to the village of Leguivin.  We chose the shorter route along paths frequented by joggers and dog-walkers, several of whom helped us find the way at confusing intersections.

The day grew increasingly warm

There was little shade and no clouds as we left the jogging paths and walked through suburban neighborhoods.

In Leguivin we found a small market where we bought a litre of water, a can of juice and a small bag of potato chips which we ate on a bench in the village square.  We got directions for continuing from two people, and followed more suburban streets until we were in the country, and finally arriving at a dirt trail leading into the forest, where we paused to drink water.  We were grateful to be off paved roads at last.  There were a few more problematic intersections on the forest trail, which we could tell had been muddy a short time before, but had now dried in the shapes left by tractor tires, a bit hard and rough underfoot, but surely better than mud.

After an hour or two in the forest, some of which had been logged, so there were no trees and no shade, we came out to a paved road at the top of a very long, very steep hilll.  The views of the surrounding farm fields, patchworks of green, brown, and brilliant yellow were spectacular.  At last as the road began to climb again, the markers pointed to a path through fields where we continued to climb.  There were now views of houses and small ponds, but L’Isle Jordain lay beyond more hills. 

An occasional breeze cooled us a bit, but we were dripping with sweat.  Kent dug my bandana from the top of my pack, and I mopped the sweat from my eyes and tied it around my neck.  

Eventually we came to another road, walked past more houses and crossed a busy highway and a railroad track.  We sat in the grass under some trees for a bit, and figured we had another hour to go.  The route via the road would have been shorter, but we opted for the Grand Randonee path.  We’d had enough of road-walking.  I had only a small amount of water in my half-litre bottle, and the other bottle we’d bought was empty.  Kent had water in his hydration pack that we shared, but how much was left?  We had no way of knowing.

At the very last house on the track, a young girl was mounting a horse, her mother opening the gate for her. 

“Bonjour,” I said, “Un peu d’eau, si’l vous plait?” and gestured to Kent to pull out my bottle.  The mother graciously took our two bottles and disappeared into the house as the daughter headed down the track we would follow.  Grateful for the kindness of strangers, we drank half of our new water within minutes as we followed the horse down the track.

All went well until we reached a river and misread signs, which led us in the wrong direction.  I turned to Google maps to corroborate, and got that familiar voice in English saying , “Go Southwest.”  We turned around.

We crossed an ancient brick bridge and were soon in a park along a lake, surrounded by people.  We stopped at the tourist office, a modern building by the lake, and took a look at the very nice-looking attached gite.  If we hadn’t already reserved at the hotel,  this would have been just fine.  “One pilgrim tonight,” we were told.

We strolled along the lakeshore — maybe staggered is a better word for it, among families, old folks with dogs, young couples holding hands, and young men sitting at picnic tables with packs of beer.

Finally —the hotel, the Hostellerie du Lac, an old-fashioned summer hotel.  After 7.5 hours of walking, we were hot, exhausted, and dripping sweat.  “I’d like a beer, “ said Kent as he was handed the key to room 04.  “Right now?” she asked. Yes, right now!  “Make that two!” I said, taking the key and heading up the stairs.  i had just opened the door of the dark room, when the woman from the desk whipped past me, carrying two Heineken bottles and two glasses on a tray.  She threw open the shutters, flooding the room with light, and set the tray down on the balcony that over-looked the lake.  We had arrived!

Dropping our packs, we eased ourselves into the chairs.   We’d made through our first day!

There were baths in the old-fashioned tub, a bit of hand-washing, and finally a sumptuous dinner on the terrace. We were not always sure what we were eating: slices of heart in a salad, perhaps, and a foie gras, with scallops and tiny shrimp in another salad.

Too tired to write more than a bit, I fell asleep.  Tomorrow we’d have a shorter day.