Pilgrim's Road

Canterbury or Walsingham, which did not carry anything like the same risks or hardships. A pilgrim had to be very determined indeed to set his sights on Santiago. So what, I wondered, did eleventh-century pilgrims make of one of Jesus’s disciples becoming the bloodthirsty Santiago Matamoros ‘Slayer of Moors’? A disciple, moreover, who had been present at all the most important of the Gospel events, like the Transfiguration and the Agony in the Garden?
    Soon after Bazas I descended to the flat sandy plains of Les Landes, where I really had no choice but to ride on the D932 which was a main road. But for once the wind was behind me so that I fairly sped down the long straight stretches of tarmac that run through acres of dark forests. The golden day became hotter and hotter and in each small clearing I passed there were couples and families eating a leisurely lunch at wooden picnic tables. This meant fewer vehicles on the busy road and I decided to take full advantage of the lull. In any case the easy exhilarating riding made me forget hunger and thirst and I did all of the thirty miles to Roquefort in one glorious spurt.
    Roquefort is not where the famous cheese comes from, I discovered to my disappointment: it was made in other villages in the area and had got its name from being marketed in Roquefort. The town’s importance is that it is the only place for many miles where a wide tributary of the River Douze can be crossed. As a consequence of this, several roads converged on the bottle neck of the narrow bridge, and it was the point at which the day’s euphoria ceased in the racket and fumes of long lines of lorries. The pavement was the only relatively safe place for a bicycle, and as I walked along it, I realised that the saying about it being too noisy to hear oneself think is literally true.
    Under the circumstances it was a relief to learn that Roquefort’s camping was ‘broken’ and to be directed to Sarbazan, a small village two kilometres away, where my tent soon stood in solitary state among glades of tall pines.
    Picaud describes the area of Les Landes as ‘desolate country’, lacking in everything: ‘there is neither bread nor wine nor meat nor fish nor water nor any springs’ he warns. Things have changed. I had a particularly sumptuous dinner of many kinds of smoked meats, an excellent salmon pasta dish and a good steak, all of which I could only do adequate justice to because of having foregone lunch. So good was the food, and so abundant that the meal went on much longer than usual. Even the crème caramel was twice the usual size. By the time I had paid the bill it was pitch black and a full-scale thunderstorm was in progress.
    I had a mile or so of woodland tracks to negotiate to get back to my camp, and all I possessed in the way of lights was a mini caving lamp which fitted on the front of my head by means of an elastic harness. This was excellent for reading or writing in the tent; it also made a useful emergency front lamp when riding — at least it enabled oncoming traffic to see me; but it did little to illuminate the rough, root-encumbered ground.
    ‘Thank you God and all the blessed saints and angels who look after foolhardy travellers,’ began that night’s entry in the journal. For somehow I was guided back to the small, hump-backed, fragile bit of nylon which was my temporary home in that black, sodden world. And how that could have been achieved without braining myself on a tree or mangling Roberts among the many hazards was a feat I could only put down to Divine Intervention.
    Having accomplished the difficult task of getting myself inside the tiny low tent without soaking everything in it; and now warm and dry in my sleeping bag and dutifully writing up my notes, the rumbling thunder and the tumultuous rain only added to the feeling of safety laced with the spice of adventure.
     

4
     
    Towards the Pyrenees
     
    T HE countryside changed again as I crossed the River Adour and found the road rising sharply in front of me. Gone in the instant were the broad flat plains of Les Landes with their scents of resinous pine forests and sandy heathlands. On either side now were hills rolling on southwards towards the high Pyrenees, and there was a cool fresh hint of mountain air.
    By the time I had adjusted to the increased demands of the terrain and settled my pedalling rhythm to the right gear, I had arrived at the small town of St Sever and was happy to turn off the road