Cahors To Bordeaux

On my last day of the trail, Saturday 19 May, I waited at the bus stop in Limogne for a bus to Cahors. No bus came. Instead a car arrived, and a blonde lady driver stepped out to greet me. 'The bus has broken down,' she announced. ' So I'm taking you!' Whether the bus had actually broken down, or whether the staff hadn't turned up because it was a French public holiday weekend, I never did determine.

However, I had no cause to complain: my 'private taxi' (I was the only passenger) took me in comfort and style on the forty minute journey to Cahors, and not only took me to Cahors but went the scenic route down the valley, then up over the tops, with stupendous views over endless forests cut by deep, limestone gorges. And all for the price of a few euros (the lady absolutely refused to accept a tip). And this charming 'bus driver' and I talked non-stop, so it was good for my French too. In short, as you can see, I was picked up by une femme inconnue on my last day of the trail, which doesn't happen all the time on pilgrimage, I assure you. A wonderful instance of how 'trail angels' can materialise even when the trail is over...

In Cahors the weather turned, and the rain teemed down...   

The Pont Valentré in Cahors. This bridge over the river Lot is one of the finest medieval bridges in Europe.

I chose a slow way home from Cahors, and caught a train to Bordeaux, where I slept the night...

The view from my hotel bedroom in Bordeaux.

The Église Sainte-Croix in Bordeaux.

A moss-covered St George slays the dragon on the western façade of the Église Sainte-Croix.

 Detail of carved stonework from the west portico of the Église Sainte-Croix.

I befriend two university lecturers in a Bordeaux bistrot.

Bordeaux bistrot girls.

The Café du Levant near Bordeaux railway station.

Bordeaux railway station.

Sharing Bread (And Chocolate)

Yesterday's photo was taken in the cool, simple interior of the chapel of Saint-Jean-le-Froid (see pic) which is situated on the Chemin de Saint-Jacques above the village of Lascanbanes - about half-way between Cahors and Moissac. It's hauntingly numinous there. It lies in the old French province of Quercy. See how the simple and beautiful altar resembles a pre-Christian dolmen - I've written about this subject before here.

I suppose the figure in the chapel's stained glass window represents Saint-Jean-le-Froid himself. I don't know much about this saint - except that his name translates as 'Saint John the Cold' - which I saw translated on some French website once as 'Saint James the Refrigeration'!

There's a pilgrim register in the chapel where you can read hundreds of comments pilgrims have entered, alongside their names and nationalities.

The chapel was renovated in 1982. Next to the chapel there's a miraculous fountain. At summer solstice each year people would drink water from it just before sunrise in the hope of curing eye diseases and rheumatism.

Earlier that day, I remember, before the sun had burned off the mist, I met a French schoolteacher and her daughter who were walking part of the Chemin together. So nice for a mother and daughter to be doing this, I thought. Sadly I can't recall their names now. I should have noted down the names of everyone I met. I think it's important. We chatted easily for half-an-hour. They were lovely people - très sympa, as they say in French. They offered me some of their late breakfast - bread and chocolate!

Dining With The Daughters Of Jesus

Half-way between Cajarc and Cahors lies the Monastère des Filles de Jésus (the Convent of the Daughters of Jesus) at Verlats. On 29 October I spent the night there. A tiny, stoop-backed nun showed me to the dormitory wing in an old stable block. The bedrooms were cold and high-ceilinged. With difficulty I managed to coax an enormous old radiator into life. Good. I could wash my evil-smelling socks and dry them on it. I cleaned my boots, too, which were clogged with thick clay. It had rained in the afternoon and the paths had been very muddy. I didn't know it then, but that day was one of the very few rainy days I would have.

At dinner the pilgrims were seated at a huge, rectangular table in the centre of the refectory. There was a young, self-possessed French girl whose name I can't recall. There were 2 devout French Catholic families with countless children. And there was me. Unusually for France the food was rather dismal, a product of mass catering: lumpy tapioca soup followed by forlorn beefburgers and sticky pasta. However the crème caramel dessert was delicious. Around us sat the nuns, smiling shyly. Most were very old. Some were in wheelchairs. Some had little beards and moustaches.

There were plenty of wine bottles on our table. The Catholic families were not big drinkers so a lot of the wine seemed to come my way. The meal passed ever more agreeably. Whenever I spoke an awed silence descended on the room. Was my French that bad, or were they all astonished that an Englishman was actually attempting to speak it (the English are notoriously shy of foreign languages)? When the assembled diners learnt I lived near Nottingham there were the usual questions: Did Robin Hood really exist? Is there still a Sheriff of Nottingham? Had I met Kevin Costner (who played Robin in the 1991 film)? I replied too loudly and too lengthily with increasing, wine-fuelled eloquence...

At the end of the meal the Mother Superior swept in, talking animatedly into a state-of-the-art mobile phone. She welcomed us with enthusiasm as she stamped our pilgrim passports. "It's free to stay here, but a little donation would be most appreciated," she beamed, pushing the collection box our way. "€20 is recommended..."

Next morning before breakfast I attended morning prayers (lauds) in the chapel. Both Catholic families were there. A little girl found the right place in the prayer book for me. Elderly nuns chanted in quavering voices. I found it all unbelievably moving. I stayed a while in the chapel after everyone else had left. Then it was back on the trail, through endless chalky woods to the scrubby limestone plateau (causse) above Cahors. The photo shows the town of Cahors on the river Lot. With a population of 21,000 it was by far the largest place I had visited.