The puys here are volcanic cones, created when a volcano forms underwater. This was not understood until Surtsey erupted off Iceland in the 1960s. This must have been a very exciting place millions of years ago. There are hundreds of these puys over about 400 square miles, although few as dramatic as the two in Le Puy itself. The other puy (not the one surmounted by the statue, but the one from which the city got its name) is surmounted by a church reached only by 284 steps. It was built in 961 by the local bishop, Gotschalk, in celebration of his pilgrimage toSantiagoin 950-951. He was the first documented French notable to make the pilgrimage to Santiago. The church is memorable partly because every bit of construction material was carted up those 284 steps. That must have been some project management task!  I had planned to make the trek up the steps, but by the time I had walked up from the lower town to the Cathedral three times I decided to let well enough alone. Carroll will be relieved.

 If I had been wandering around Le Puy in the summer of 1865, I might have run into a friendly and gregarious young Englishman who was having a bedroll of oiled canvas made here so that he could start a walk from a town about 20 km south of here. He bought a donkey to carry his gear, not realizing that donkeys walk more slowly than people and have a mind of their own. He walked for 12 days, about 120 miles and wrote a book about his adventures called, appropriately, Travels With a Donkey. This was his second book. It made him more famous. He went on to write many more books, all best-sellers with the English-speaking audience. His name, of course, was Robert Louis Stevenson. When he died, too young, in Java, he was the best-beloved writer in the English language.

 A century or so earlier, I might have met a local boy who grew up to be Marechal Lafayette, hero of the American Revolution of 1776. There is a street in the upper town named after him. I take a photo.

 I have discovered, back at the gite, that I have evidently left my power adapter inParis. This IS a crisis. Both my computer and my cell phone depend on regular recharging and I can’t do that. Both batteries are exhausted. It is mid-afternoon and I am sitting on the terrace of the Restaurant La Grande Ourse having a beer because it is not the hour for food. It is very pleasant out, sunny, late spring to early summer. I ask about possible Internet access. There are two Internet cafes in town, but both closed because it is Sunday. I was cautioned about the French issue with hours of business and days off. Sundays and Mondays are problematic.

While I sit here, the entertainment … there is always entertainment … is water pouring down the half-dozen steps from a public washroom across the very small square. The fire department is on the scene, but the water continues to pour down the steps. I don’t want to know what is in the flow of water.

 Karsten is due at 5:15 on the train, so I go to the station to welcome him. No Karsten. I walk back up the gite, where he arrives about 8 PM. His flight fromBerlintoLyonwas delayed four hours, so he caught a later train. I am very pleased to see him. It’s been four years since I last saw him in  Berlin. We will be off in the morning.

16 April 2011

 In the morning Ian delivers me back to the Bordeauxstation in what we both think will be lots of time. Fate intervenes. At the ticket wicket, I present my papers with proof of purchase. The agent looks at the paper, looks at the computer screen, looks again at the paper and, after some moments, says (in French) “The tickets were printed yesterday.” I say “Not by me.” He then enlists the assistance of several other agents, who all examine the screen and my papers with great interest but little illumination. By now it’s 15 minutes to train departure. I ask if I have to pay again. “Oh, non, monsieur”. More time passes. More scratching of heads. Finally a supervisor is called in. She looks at the screen, looks at the tickets and says that everything is fine, all seats are reserved, but I must pay. So out with the trusty credit card and pay – again – for my set of tickets that will take me fromBordeaux all aroundFrance on four trains for ten hours to get to Le Puy en Velay. I get my ticket, find track 6, find car 12, find seat 66 and am on board with five minutes to spare. What if I had no money?

 The trip to Le Puy is long and circular. There is no train service east to west in central France. Bordeaux is east, Le Puy is west, so the train goes from Bordeaux in flat agricultural (vineyards) country south to Montpellier – where I see the Mediterranean, an unexpected pleasure, change trains for Lyon, heading north-east, change trains in Lyon for St-Etienne heading west and again in St-Etienne for the last train to Le Puy. I almost blow it in Lyon. I think that I have a two-hour layover, but the train is behind schedule (unheard of  in Europe) and I have about ten minutes. I get to the right track and am about to get on the train, when I read the routing on the side of the train. No mention of St-Etienne. I ask a redcap – it’s not my train. It pulls out, another pulls in – this is my train. I would have gone off in the wrong direction. I haven’t done that in almost 50 years.

On the train from St-Etienne, the entertainment is provided by two young clean-cut seemingly competent young men who pull out a parcel, two large sheets of wrapping paper and Scotch tape and proceed to “wrap” the parcel. Charley Brown and Linus could have done it better. When they are done, I am sorely tempted to ask to take a picture of the finished work, but I suspect they might be insulted. Across from me sit two male teenagers, big grins on their faces as they tell me that they don’t speak or understand a word of English. Apparently this is a matter of pride for many young French today. It’s a shame. Why wouldn’t you want to speak more than one language? I am finally starting to feel excited about this journey.

 This last train is like being in Norway: many tunnels, running on mountainsides beside a fast river. It is a three-car train and makes a very satisfying clickety-clack as it runs over the track. The area here is called Rhone-Alpes, describing it quite accurately. It has been sunny and warm all day.

 An observation today. I have seen literally thousands of people today at the various train stations and on the train. Not a single one – not one – is obese. Very few are even chubby. It seems to me that this is a terrible indictment of our North American life style and of our whole lethal food industry. They are killing us for profit.

 In Le Puy, a city of about 29,000, the only flat parts are the river valleys; the Loireand the Borne merge here. The rest is very hilly, very steep. My gite d’etape (hostel) is next to the cathedral in the old town, at the very top of the hill. It is directly under the famous, but ugly, statue of Our Lady of France, situated on top of one of the “puy”. At the train station, a local woman suggests that I take a taxi up my lodging. It is very, very good advice. It’s steep and the roads are irregular stone cobble, much of it volcanic rock.

 I check in to the gite, run by the Franciscan nuns – I am greeted by two young nuns – and given my room. Unexpectedly and very pleasantly, it is a single room with a bed, wardrobe, spotlessly clean, toilet and showers nearby and a French door directly on the street. When Karsten arrives tomorrow, he will have a room next to mine.

 The huge statue of Our Lady of France, directly above my gite,  has an interesting history. It was created in 1860 from 233 melted-down cannon taken from the Russians in the Crimean War. There is a British and Canadian connection as well. The British took Russian cannon, melted them down and formed the medal of the Victoria Cross from them. So every Canadian who won a Victoria Cross in every war after that has a little piece of Russian cannon on his chest.

Less than one hour to fly from Frankfurt to Paris, then about two hours to get out of the airport. I have to get my baggage … which has arrived safely, so that is one big concern out of the way. Then I need to get a SIM card for my phone, exchange some money for Euros and find a bus that goes to or near Gare Montparnasse, from which I will be leaving tomorrow morning. I discover that my hotel is on Rue du Maine, not Avenue du Maine. This takes a while. It is already 4 PM when I am supposed to meet my cousin Roger and his wife Jackie, who have come from north ofLondonto see me today and are staying about 5 km from here. I find a cab driven by Marc Etienne Monet, 50s, fleshy face and body, no English, and who is very excited when he finds that I have come toFrance to walk the Chemin de St.-Jacques. His wife walked it some years ago. I meet Roger, Jackie and Will Inrig, grandson of old friends. Will is studying here in Paris. I thought he was studying film, which he was, but now he is studying Fine Arts and will start at the Sorbonne this fall. We walk down the street to a small brasserie on the bank of the Seine and have drinks and a light dinner. It’s wonderful! Jackie asks me probing and thoughtful questions about why I am doing this and I answer truthfully, “I still don’t know why.” She cautions me, very sensibly, about trying to recreate the experience. After dinner, I say goodbye to Roger and Jackie, promising to meet again soon and Will takes me off to Montmartre to see the lights of Paris at night. Then he generously gets me back to the door of my hotel. I use the European plug adapter for my cell phone to charge it overnight. This will have fateful consequences.

Sorry about the lack of news.  I am in the Auvergne district, specifially the Haute Loire (think back of beyond) and there is very little Internet or WiFi here and what there is, is spotty. I will catch up when I can.

13 April 2011

 It’s just after6 PM and I am once again sitting in the departure lounge at Ottawa International Airport. I am heading out for Paris via Frankfurt; once again I have given my precious backpack to Air Canada to get safely to the airport in Paris. I did ask to see the baggage tag and it is indeed to CDG, Charles de Gaulle in Paris. My plan was to put the backpack inside an old black suitcase. The plan failed because when I tested the suitcase at  ValueVillage, the zipper that I tested was, unbeknownst to me, for the expansion section of the suitcase. The main zipper was non-functional and I didn’t realize that until a few hours ago. Happily, Carroll had mentioned something about a nylon carrying bag for backpacks and I had picked one up at Mountain Equipment Coop. It works fine, so the package on the baggage belt is a non-descript black nylon duffel bag. Shouldn’t tempt anyone.

 I almost came without my trusty Tilley hat, on to which Carroll has sewn a lovely pink scallop shell from the west coast of Canada, a happy gift from Mary Virtue. I had my hat on when I got into the car to go to the airport, then put it down between the driver’s seat and the centre console and promptly forgot that I had done that. When I got out at the airport, I picked up my backpack and my carry-on bag, then realized that my hat wasn’t there. I was prepared to leave without it. Carroll got into the driver’s seat, then jumped out triumphantly with the hat in her hand. What a relief … and not an auspicious start to the trip. I must not leave things behind!

 The weather here is gray, cool, a little rainy, very low ceiling. It would be good walking weather. I have no idea what to expect when I get to Le Puy. I hope that it is at least clear because I want to get some photos of the town’s major features.

 14 April 2011 1030 AM

I am now sitting in another lounge, this time inFrankfurt. I am between flights, waiting for the plane toParis. It’s sunny and warm here. The flight was uneventful, as all flights should be. Because I have lots of Aeroplan points, I flew business class. That meant that I had a little pod all to myself, a seat that reclined into a bed and excellent food and service. Seems a little bizarre, flying in luxury to start an 800-kilometre walk, but what the hey, it’s my camino.

1230 in Paris. I am here and so is my backpack. What a relief!

I have less than 24 hours now until I leave Ottawa for my walk across France. Yesterday I had the last opportunity for grandchild therapy for the next 10 weeks. My son Christian brought the grandchildren to Ottawa for the weekend so that I could spend time with them. I am prepared to go, feeling calm and wondering what in hell I was thinking when I decided to do this.

Today I bought a small light carrying bag for the backpack so that I don’t have to carry the pack everywhere. I still plan to use the cruddy used suitcase I bought for $10 to disguise the backpack when it travels without me. This is my plan for having my pack take the same planes that I will be on tomorrow. I will let you know how this works. I will be wearing my boots, carrying my rain jacket and all electronics that are going with me. Also my guide book the Miam Miam Dodo book from Le Puy en Velay to Saint Jean Pied de Port.

I get an uneasy feeling when people talk about nationalism or about patriotism. That’s because I believe that these terms are code for inclusion and exclusion based on geography or, more historically, on tribe. Nationalism and patriotism, like tribalism, are based on inclusion in a group that, by definition, excludes all others. When it is tribalism, at least there is some kind, however loose, of family or clan connection. But nationalism is a loyalty to something that is quite artificial – a political entity based on defined geographic borders.

I love the country which gave me sanctuary when Hitler was threatening to invade Britain, in whose Armed Forces I served for 25 years and in which I have spent most of my life, but I don’t think that Canada, which is an artificial political construct, should rank higher in my loyalty than a true friend.

As E M Forster said; “I hate the idea of causes, and if I had to choose between betraying my country and betraying my friend, I hope I should have the guts to betray my country.”

The word patriotism has been hijacked, in my view, by politicized people who want to define anyone who doesn’t agree with them as less patriotic or even as treasonous. George W Bush gave this approach a huge boost after the destruction of the twin towers, when he said; “If you are not with us, you are against us”, leaving no room for the civilized discourse that is the real trademark of democracy.

So I am a Canadian and a proud Canadian and I would die, if necesary to defend my country … but I am not a nationalist or a patriot in the narrow and modern sense of the word. I haven’t yet heard the term used in Canada yet, but I expect it any day now that we have a federal political campaign underway.

I am sitting here in the Maple leaf Lounge at Vancouver’s airport, waiting for a flight that will take me and Carroll back to Ottawa after a whirlwind visit to Vancouver Island. A couple of months ago I was invited to be the keynote speaker at the annual meeting of the Victoria chapter of the Canadian Company of Pilgrims on Saturday 2 April. I was delighted to be able to accept. Since Carroll and I had very little experience of the Island, we decided to make it a short holiday as well.

We flew out on 30 March in time to attend the annual Moreuil Wood lunch of the Armoured Corps in Victoria, where we met friends whom we had not seen, in some cases, since the ‘60s. Following that, we went off to stay with Mary Virtue and her delightful husband Les Foster, who put us up for the time we were there. On Thursday we drove up to Comox, where we spent an overnight with old friends (and a fellow helicopter pilot from Germany) Bob and Joyce Goldie. Their daughter Lauren drove up from Victoria to spend the evening with us. She now has beautiful grown daughters. The last time we saw Lauren (who was then Laurie), she was a tall gawky pre-teen, already showing signs of her beauty.

 En route to Comox, we visited Chemainus, where the town has commissioned wonderful mosaics on many of the stores’ exterior walls. We also visited Cathedral Grove, a stand of preserved old-growth forest. Some of the trees there are over 800 years old. It felt like a visit to Jurassic Park and I kind of expected to see dinosaurs peeking around these enormous trees. I cannot imagine what it must have been like when the island and much of the mainland was covered in these awe-inspiring trees. I want to come back, find one of these stands of old-growth forest, then sit in it for a few hours to feel whatever feelings come up.

On Saturday, we spent the day at the Salvation Army Citadel, with about 140 caminophiles. About a third had already walked the Camino de Santiago and the other two-thirds want to. I spoke immediately after lunch, and the audience’s enthusiastic feedback inspired me to new heights. After four years I still love telling the story and it was enormously gratifying to have a welcoming audience. (I also sold a lot of copies of the book, A Journey of Days!).

 Riding on a high note, Carroll and I went off on Sunday morning to have lunch with Gene and Claudette Lake, an old military friend from Germany days. It was Gene who had suggested, when he discovered I was coming out to Victoria to speak, that I get in touch with Cadboro Bay Books. Patricia, the owner, was very gracious and set up a reading for Sunday afternoon. The tiny store was filled to overflowing and the audience was attentive, then asked all kinds of questions. One person told me that it was like I was speaking directly to them. I find that kind of comment very satisfying, since it means that I have really reached them.

 So now it is only a week until I leave. Almost time to panic!