The Aubrac Plateau

During my 5th and 6th days we climbed higher and crossed the wild, windswept plateau of the Aubrac. I loved this harsh, bare landscape of open grassland dotted with bizarrely-shaped outcrops of basalt rock. The mornings were frosty with a cold wind pushing at our backs. We moved along drailles or drove roads and passed delapidated burons or shepherds' huts - transhumance is still practised here. One night we ate aligot, a local speciality dish of melted cheese (tomme d'Auvergne, a low-fat cheese made from skimmed milk) and mashed potatoes with a little butter, cream - and garlic of course.

The photo shows my companion Thierry and Pascal, the other pilgrim in Saint-Privat-d'Allier I mentioned earlier, who arrived after me chez Jean-Marc et Marie. We have been drinking tea with honey in a hotel bar in the village of Aubrac. This small village was founded in 1120 by a Flemish knight, Adelard de Flandres, who was attacked by bandits on his way to Santiago and who almost died there on his return journey. In gratitude he founded Aubrac as a place of refuge for pilgrims. That hotel bar was certainly a warm and welcoming place of refuge for us that lunchtime.

The Beast Of Gévaudan

The dates of the hunting season in France vary from place to place and for different types of animal. While I was there it was in full swing. Indeed I encountered more huntsmen than pilgrims. They were mainly chasing chevreuils (roe deer), sangliers (wild boar), lièvres (hares), lapins (rabbits) and colombes (pigeons). Signs such as Chasse Privée (private hunting ground) and Réserve de Chasse (deer park) are commonplace. Vast tracts of land are reserved for hunting to which public access is forbidden. At times the Auvergne and the Margeride hills resembled a war zone. The hills were alive with the sound of carnage. I saw few animals in the empty countryside. It was as though it had been swept clean. Yes, death stalks the little hills and valleys of the Gévaudan. It was always thus.

Between the years 1764 and 1767 the infamous Beast of Gévaudan terrorized this area. This huge wolf-like creature was described as being the size of a cow with red fur, fangs, a small head, a big chest, a black stripe down its back and a long tail with a tuft at the end. People have surmised it could have been a freakishly large wolf or wolf-dog hybrid, an escaped hyena, a wolverine, a bear or a baboon. What is certain is that there are around 200 recorded attacks by this fearsome predator, attacks which left more than 80 people dead and more than 30 wounded. It preferred people rather than farm animals, and women and children rather than men. It generally went for the head first and it had a predilection for sucking blood. There were many attempts to track down and kill the animal but with little success. Finally - and this is a controversial story - on 19 June 1767 a band of pilgrims made for the church of Notre Dame de Beaulieu at the foot of Mt Chauvet. They attended mass and took Holy Communion. A gun and cartridges were duly blessed. And with this sanctified weapon a certain Jean Chastel is supposed to have shot and killed the Beast, ending a 3 year reign of terror.

One can safely say that huntsmen and pilgrims are not natural allies. Indeed I was often chilled to see the sinister figure of a solitary hunter, gun on arm, motionless before some copse or spinney; and I would walk swiftly on. Yet I must be careful not to be hypocritical here. I often enjoyed a baguette with wild boar paté at lunchtime...

Silence And Tears

I remember that first day on the Chemin very clearly. 17 October. Blue skies. Warm and sunny. The hills and valleys of the Auvergne. Wooded slopes and the golden leaves of autumn. Peaceful, deserted villages basking in the noonday sun. Romanesque churches with rounded stone vaulting. I kept bumping into pilgrims all day. Some shared their lunch with me as we picnicked on the grass in front of the Chapelle Saint-Roch (see photo).

By late afternoon I'd reached the village of Saint-Privat-d'Allier. It's stunningly situated on a volcanic cliff above a gorge of the Allier river. A Christian family took me in free for the night. "While you are here treat this house as your home," they said.

At twilight I climbed up to the 14th century church and went inside. The silence was profound. You could hear absolutely nothing at all. Except for the slight whirring in my head of my own automatic, pointless thoughts. And with an effort of will even these were stilled. As the darkness closed in, shapes lost their solidity, and my sense of time and place became blurred. My mind emptied itself.

Later at dinner my hosts, Jean-Marc and Marie, told me how they had met on the Camino, fallen in love, married, and then decided to open their house to pilgrims. Another pilgrim arrived. Food kept appearing. The wine flowed. Their young son chased an enormous dog round and round the room. The conversation was animated and far-ranging. I couldn't understand the half of it. I realised how rusty my French had become.

Then a strange thing happened. I don't know if it was the effect of the wine after 2 nights' lack of sleep, or whether I was touched by the kindness of strangers, or whether I was charged by the many emotions I'd felt on this, my 1st day of pilgrimage. But tears welled up inside me and I wept like a child. Jean-Marc patted me on the arm reassuringly, a wise and benign expression on his face. "Don't worry. It's quite normal," he said. "We experience this time and time again. It's necessary..."

That night I rolled out my sleeping bag in their attic-dormitory and slept long and deeply for the first time since leaving home.