Pilgrim's Road

pilgrim — I heard them remarking. Several came and asked me directly if I was going to Compostela, touching the scallop shell and murmuring ‘Un beau coquillage ’. They seemed so genuinely glad to greet a pilgrim that I thought they would also know the best place for me to have a good meal at a reasonable price. I was right, with no hesitation I was pointed to a serious-looking establishment in the centre of the market.
    Chez Dumas had made no concessions to the age of the motor car as yet, and could easily have coped with the needs of a company of reasonably well to do pilgrims and their horses. Roberts looked totally out of place, alone among the empty stalls and the stone mangers of the cobbled coach yard. I was ushered into a dim, plain interior, varnished by time to a uniform creamy brown, and furnished with long oilcloth-covered tables and wooden benches. An old woman began to tell me what was on offer, but her accent was difficult to follow, and it seemed simpler to leave the choice to her. Had I not had a few hours of hard pedalling behind me this would have been a serious mistake, for even with a great hollow to fill, I had difficulty in coping with the succession of courses that arrived, each one of excellent quality and each a meal in itself — thick soup, stewed meat, a great plate of raw roast beef, mounds of vegetables, and a quite delicious fruit tart. As the tables slowly filled with other diners, I began to realise that I had been given twice as much as anyone else. I guessed that this was because of my pilgrim status, rather than because I might have looked hungry. I had read somewhere that it had once been the custom to give pilgrims double portions. I hadn’t dreamt it still existed, but I was thankful that I had been able to acquit myself with honour.
    St Sever had one further surprise for me. After I had been to the Mairie , chatted with the girls there and had my record stamped, the elderly usher, resplendent in green uniform, stopped me before I could ride off. Slipping a ten franc piece into my palm he said ‘Pour un café sur la route, madame'. Once in India, and again in Egypt, I have had gifts of money urged upon me by kindly men who had assumed that only extreme poverty could cause me to be riding around their respective countries on a bicycle. But since cycling is considered a noble sport in France, I did not think the doorman was moved by that sort of compassion. His alms I realised were a sort of sponsorship endorsing the pilgrimage in general. He considered I was doing something worthwhile, and by staking me to a coffee he had a share in the venture. It was a touching and kindly gesture, but it had its serious side too, dispelling the notion that I was an entirely free agent on this journey. And in fact the visit to St Sever was to prove a watershed; after it I was never again able to feel that going on pilgrimage to Santiago was something that concerned myself alone.
    Heavy lunches need to be balanced by a nap or a gentle stroll; they certainly are not good for cycling, especially not when accompanied by a couple of glasses of full-bodied wine. Once more I found myself floundering feebly on the uphill sections, of which there were plenty, some of them quite formidable, and I began to be quite alarmed at the thought of the mountain barriers still to come. By five p.m., with a horrid, damp weather front closing in, I gave up the struggle, obtained permission from a friendly farmer to pitch my tent in the shelter of a belt of trees, and having decided to dispense with any further meals that day, read a little, and soon dropped into a much-needed, restorative sleep.
    The next day showed no lifting of the cloud ceiling. The countryside was grey and melancholy like an early black and white film. I rather liked the period effect, with everything dripping, and the grass heavy with droplets of moisture. Even the cows, whose heads loomed over the wire fences eyeing me as I passed, had their long lashes beaded as though with tears. Under the grey concealing mist the contours of the land rose and fell continuously, and I tried to decide whether it was harder not to see the extent of the slopes that lay ahead, or a blessing. I was still unsure about this when I reached Orthez, a small town on the banks of the wide Gave de Pau. A few weak gleams of sunlight chose that moment to break through and immediately life in general seemed much more cheerful. It was further improved by a café in