Sarah had the GPS set to our accommodation, but the route took us through the middle of the medieval village, full of tourists and souvenir shops.
‘Just over a mile to go,’ she said.
Gilbert pointed to a vacant table at one of the busy bars and without waiting for a response flopped into it. Six beers.
‘It’s gorgeous,’ said Zoe. It was. A well-preserved walled town on a hill—a hill that we were too familiar with.
Camille was on her phone. Taxi? We’d made the village centre, so she could argue that she wasn’t cheating.
The grins on Sarah’s and Bernhard’s faces when the beers arrived suggested that Gilbert had made a good call. Camille’s call wasn’t so good. I’d barely finished my half-pint when a solid middle-aged woman appeared and surveyed our table.
‘These four,’ said Camille in French. And then, to us, ‘I have arranged a tour of the town. The history is very interesting. Gilbert and I are familiar with it, so we will meet you at the accommodation.’
Gilbert raised his hand. Two more beers.
Pérouges is not large, but it is cobblestoned, steep and full of history. Our guide spoke rapid French and left no ancient stone unturned.
Zoe, in halting French, did her best to bribe her to finish early, but she wasn’t having any of it. Two bloody hours, then the walk back. Thirty-two kilometres plus surely another three around the village.
The hotel was in the suburb of Meximieux, but pleasant enough. Gilbert had left a message at the desk to meet at reception at seven-thirty.
I was lying on the bed naked when Zoe emerged from the shower.
‘Don’t even think about it,’ she said.
For once, I didn’t.
Gilbert and Camille were all smiles.
‘Great achievement,’ said Gilbert. ‘We have recovered well.’
‘The tour was interesting?’ said Camille. Was she taking the piss?
Gilbert pointed to the door. ‘The restaurant is back past the village. Only three kilometres.’ Zoe gasped and he broke into a smile. Definitely taking the piss.
The restaurant was next door, a wood-fired grill and just brilliant, as simple food and drink are after you’ve recovered from hard exercise.
‘One week completed,’ said Bernhard. ‘Repeat ten times and we are in Rome.’ For Sarah and me, it marked a third of the way.
‘Wait,’ said Camille. ‘I have something to say. I was misinformed. I did not expect to be climbing over rocks. I did not expect to have to pee in the woods. I did not expect to walk thirty-three kilometres.’
‘I hear you,’ said Zoe. ‘As Gilbert says, a week is a great accomplishment. We’ve walked maybe a hundred miles…’
‘One hundred and thirty-two kilometres,’ said Bernhard. ‘Eighty-three miles.’
‘Most people never do a walk like that in their lives,’ said Zoe. ‘So, if you’re saying, let’s stop here…’
Camille gave a look of mock-horror. ‘Of course not. I am walking to Rome. Maybe I will organise another tour for you in the next village.’ She looked around for reactions. ‘Or maybe we will not do any more days of thirty kilometres.’
13
ZOE
The walk from Pérouges to Lagnieu was again flat, but not as long as the previous day’s. It was hot, though, and the farm roads offered little shade. Martin was walking ahead with Sarah and Camille was collecting mushrooms—fungi. ‘For you, Zoe. Vegetarians’ meat, no?’
‘Yes, but I don’t want to end up eating death trumpets.’
‘Death trumpets are excellent. The name is misleading. We won’t find these on the path—too much sun. I am collecting only fungi with good flavour. And not the one which is poisonous if you drink alcohol. Unless I decide to kill Gilbert.’
Gilbert looked up, smiling. ‘It would not be a bad way to die. Excellent food and a glass of wine. I am more worried about the climbing.’ We were getting our first glimpses of the Alps to the east; rugged peaks above pine forests now appeared across the horizon. They dwarfed the previous hills we had tackled.
‘You should worry only for yourself,’ said Camille.
‘Camille thinks I should wait at home,’ said Gilbert.
‘You surely wouldn’t have done the walk by yourself, Camille?’
She shrugged. ‘I knew you would come.’
The town of Lagnieu was a mile and a half before the gîte, and Camille planned to buy the makings for dinner there. After we both lit a candle—Camille seemed pleased to have me accompany her, though she never said much—she handed me the bag of mushrooms and pointed me to the pharmacie. ‘Go, ask if they will kill you. Go.’
Mushrooms in hand, I went to the counter. The clerk did not seem surprised and called over an older woman, who tipped the contents of the bag onto the counter, spent a minute inspecting them, then smiled.
‘Bon appétit.’
14
MARTIN
Gilbert and I grabbed a pre-completion drink while Sarah and Camille were at the supermarket. Zoe and Bernhard had joined us by the time they returned, laden with shopping bags.
‘Bloody hell. Who’s carrying those?’
Bernhard and Sarah answered by putting a bag each into their packs. Bernhard picked up the remaining two and set off. The track was flat, but hot in the direct sunshine, and when, half a kilometre from home, I reached for one of the bags, he only hesitated for a moment before handing me both.
We were all a bit knackered, and again Gilbert seemed the worst for wear. Our accommodation, an ancient stone house with an outdoor table bathed in sun, was overshadowed by vertical cliffs of the first section of the Alps. Gilbert stood for a while, staring at the rockface.
‘Take a break and I’ll see if I can get tomorrow sorted,’ I said. We’d been trying to call a chambre d’hôte, without success. If a chambre d’hôte was open, it almost invariably had rooms, even in August, famously the month that everyone in France takes holidays. Often, we were the only guests.
‘We are approaching the end of the season,’ Gilbert had said. How long was the season? For pilgrims, there was a narrow window in which the alpine paths ahead were not rendered impassable by snow. And plenty of businesses were closed for August, even restaurants which were surely missing their busiest period.
‘Exactly,’ said Gilbert when I put it to him. ‘If you own a restaurant, you don’t want to be overrun by tourists. And you are entitled to your holiday like everyone else.’
When Zoe and I came down to the communal kitchen, we found that Camille had enlisted Sarah as her sous-chef. Gilbert led us outside and, as the sun set, we ate charcuterie, crudités, bread and olives, washed down with local white wine.
In due course we went inside, where Sarah brought bowls and Camille followed with the pot: dark gravy, a mix of mushrooms, and…chunks of beef.
Zoe’s face fell. ‘Meat?’
‘Oh shit, shit, shit,’ said Sarah. ‘I was thinking how much I needed iron and then—we’re so sorry.’
Zoe began to stand, but Camille was already up: she walked to the stove and fetched a second pot. ‘Lentils of Puy with assorted mushrooms.’ She and Sarah laughed, and Zoe had no choice but to join them.
‘A toast to our kitchen team,’ said Gilbert, rubbing it in.
‘Well, I can add more good news,’ I said. I’d finally got through to the chambre d’hôte. ‘We’re cooking again tomorrow night, and the only shop in the village is a fruitière—so the carnivores had better get their fill tonight.’
Zoe raised her glass: ‘And not to forget the man who schlepped the groceries.’
As we toasted Bernhard’s effort, Camille studied him, as if for the first time. ‘So, you have no job?’
I’d wanted to ask the same question. When I’d met him three years earlier, he was between school and an engineering course.
‘I’ve finished my degree. Business administration.’
‘Not engineering?’ I said.
‘Engineers do the work, but they make n
o money. You know this from our cart design. Business people exploit their work and they are the ones who become wealthy. So, I decided to be an entrepreneur.’
‘And…’
‘The course was a waste of time. I was the top student but that means nothing. They are teaching you to be a functionary, a pen-pusher.’
‘So what instead?’
Bernhard shrugged.
‘Maybe engineering?’ I said. We’d had our arguments, but as a former teacher of the subject, I couldn’t deny he had aptitude.
He shrugged again.
I was about to continue the interrogation, but Sarah interrupted: ‘Camille and I made tarte tatin.’ She had her back to us as she added, ‘No meat.’
I felt for Bernhard. He was patently lost. I shouldn’t have taken any satisfaction from the fact that Sarah, idealistic and focused on a medical career, would have little time for someone like him.
15
ZOE
Bernhard was so much more together than Sarah. I guessed she had gotten good grades and been guided—more like pushed—by Julia into the medical course. Bernhard had the maturity to recognise a mistake and to clear his head before rushing into something new.
He was also in touch with others’ needs. The next morning at breakfast he provided Sarah—and me—with muesli made from unsweetened oats, packed with dried fruit and nuts. I needed it: the ‘fruit store’ that was our only shopping option that night turned out to be selling the fruits of the local farmers’ labour: cheese, cured meats and even ice cream, but no actual fruit or vegetables.
Sarah, on the other hand, was doing nothing for my inner peace. Even after my morning yoga meditation, just seeing her made my stomach tighten.
For the next two weeks we would be in the Alps with long climbs, some of them bigger than the notorious Pyrenees crossing on the main trail to Santiago. Martin briefed us on the Chemin de Facteur—the Mailman’s Way: steep; dangerous; not to be attempted by the inexperienced or those prone to vertigo, or if there was the slightest possibility of bad weather.
Back in the day, there must have been no mail delivery when it rained. Now there was an alternative, involving a bus ride through a tunnel. That worked for me.
But not Camille. ‘If Zoe is afraid of heights, she should take the bus, of course. But this is a pilgrimage and there will be trials.’ What happened to ‘I was expecting a promenade’?
We started with dawn breaking over the mountains, one rugged peak so white in the early glow that it may have been snow-covered. Then a five-hundred-metre climb to Saint Pancrasse, where a café was just opening. We spent a half-hour there, admiring the mountains until the wind shrouded them in cloud.
‘That wasn’t too hard,’ said Camille.
‘Have another coffee,’ said Martin. ‘The real work is ahead.’
The Mailman’s Way began a mile further down the road, but it was not a climb—instead, a seven-hundred-metre descent. Those of us with sticks had them out. Martin’s were always out, and now he was watching every step.
We were in single file on the narrow, steep and rocky path, Martin at the back and Camille in front of me, when we caught the first breathtaking views—and, suddenly, the sheer drop opening up before us. Camille seemed to lose her balance, then half-walked, half-fell into the cliff on the safe side of the path, gripping it for dear life.
Sarah knelt beside her, then waved us away. Martin took a few photos over the edge. I refused his invitation to pose: I was with Camille there.
After a few minutes, Sarah got up. ‘Camille and I are going to wait for a bit, then walk back and take the bus.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ I said.
‘We’ll all come with you,’ said Martin.
Bernhard stepped toward Sarah and Camille.
‘No,’ said Camille. ‘I am confident in Sarah.’
I could see that Martin was about to object, but Sarah gave him a hard stare. ‘We’re good, Dad.’
Martin pulled Sarah aside and spoke to her, then announced: ‘They’re okay,’ and pointed ahead.
I had never felt the need for a leader: we were all equal on this journey. But Martin was the person who planned each day, always knew where we were, and, now that we had our first real crisis, had quietly stepped up. Nobody else looked like arguing.
‘Our kilometre pace is over thirty minutes,’ said Bernhard as we continued. ‘Slower than climbing.’
After maybe forty minutes, Martin stopped. He pulled out three peaches, looked back and smiled. Camille and Sarah were coming down behind us, still a way off, but we could see Sarah in front, holding one of Camille’s batons as a bridge between them.
As they reached us, Camille let go of the stick. ‘I have no vertigo, but I lost my balance for a while.’ She took the stick again before we moved on.
The descent was followed by an anticlimax: a long hot trek, a skirt around a large town and another five-hundred-metre climb in thirty-three-degree heat—the nineties, Fahrenheit. Bernhard’s watch registered thirty-two kilometres at the end, and Camille didn’t complain. She’d come through her trial. Without me.
That was one day in the Alps. Every stage came with challenges, as well as breathtaking mountain scenery, peak after peak for as far as we could see, woods and dark lakes hidden around each corner, as the second week of walking turned into the third.
One night we stayed in a ski village full of closed restaurants where, out of season, we were the only guests in a huge complex, and had to hike two miles to a campground to find something to eat—which, as usual, was potatoes and cheese in combination. Tasty, sure, but I was getting a little over tartiflette without the bacon.
In Le Rivier d’Allemont, two days into our third—and Martin’s final—week, we arrived on the night of the monthly village soirée, with folk music and a themed dinner of exotic food (Southwestern France). And, for the first time, other pilgrims—two middle-aged Frenchmen, who might have been a couple.
With the music, conversation and my limited French, I learned little more than ‘We started in Vézelay and are walking two weeks every year until we get to Assisi, and tonight is our last night.’ Not exactly great inspiration for a cartoon and story but it was all I had so far.
Afterward, I couldn’t sleep and ended up on the tiny balcony of our room, wrapped in a rug, with my pencils and sketchbook, overlooking the empty main street of the village. Drawing helped me to think through things, but my outline of the two pilgrims wasn’t working. Nor could I capture Camille: something was always wrong with my attempt.
Finally, to calm myself, I drew the other members of the group: Gilbert with ruddy cheeks, glass of wine in hand; Martin fixing a chair with tools under his chin, hanging off his belt and behind his ear; and Sarah and Bernhard eating instant noodles.
16
MARTIN
A million years ago, in a chateau in Grosbois, I’d come across a sketch that Zoe had left for the proprietor and been struck by her ability to capture the man’s essence. Her cartoons had that same quality, and I wondered if she saw more when she drew than she was conscious of.
We’d come back from eating pizza at the only restaurant that wasn’t closed because of the day of the week, the month of the year or the whim of the proprietor in the industrial town of Modane, just three days’ walk from the Italian border, which was effectively the English border for me. Zoe had curled up to sleep, leaving her sketchbook by the bed. I opened it, and there was a study of Bernhard and Sarah eating noodles together. Her skills, to my amateur eye, had sharpened. And what I’d missed in real life was staring at me in Zoe’s sketch.
I did my best to calm my visceral reaction. Sarah was an adult. But she was, or at least had been, unstable and fragile. The sleeping-pill overdose had come after the break-up of a relationship with an older man who had been using her. The room felt too small for thinking, so, in the middle of the night, I went for—of all things—a walk.
Bernhard was a loser, effectively a dropout, and an unapol
ogetic exploiter of his charm for women. To be fair, the Don Juan routine had been three years ago. Excluding his ill-advised detour into the brambles, he hadn’t put a foot wrong this time around. If I was judging him solely on his interactions with Sarah, I’d likely be welcoming him as a stabilising influence.
This trip had ostensibly been about me spending time with Sarah, and I’d been neglecting that in favour of trying to get clarity with Zoe. Our time together was nearing its end, yet I had nothing beyond a vague idea that she’d come to Sheffield after she got Camille to Rome.
Sarah had, not unreasonably, chosen Bernhard’s and more recently Camille’s company ahead of mine. But we were hardly communicating if she’d started a relationship under my nose and not mentioned it. I resolved to talk to her the next morning and went to bed a little calmer.
She collared me first. I was filling my pack with the spoils of a shopping spree with Zoe at the organic food store, hard to justify at any time, but more so when there was a grocer—an épicerie—at our destination.
‘Zoe, do you mind if I speak to Dad for a few minutes?’
Zoe pushed ahead, and Sarah waited until we were out of earshot.
‘You’re not going to be happy with this.’
‘Let me guess: you and Bernhard…’
‘Right. We want to go all the way.’
She must have seen that I was having difficulty with what she’d said, and added, ‘To Rome. To get Camille there.’
‘And hang out with Bernhard.’
‘Pass.’
‘Hold on, aren’t you due back at uni?’
‘I told you that you weren’t going to be happy.’
‘You’re not dropping out?’ It was more an instruction than a question.
‘I’m already out. End of last semester. My room, too. I’ve been couch surfing. It’s pretty crap, but…’
‘For God’s sake, Sarah, why didn’t you tell us?’
She didn’t need to reply. Embarrassment aside, Julia and I were supporting her, but it was conditional on her being at university rather than unemployed. And directionless. Like someone else we both knew.
Two Steps Onward Page 6