Saint-Gilles

It took me 5 hours to walk across this northern part of the Camargue from Arles to Saint-Gilles. At times the heat was overpowering (used as I was to cool English Septembers) and the mosquitos annoyingly persistent (I'd dowsed with repellent my exposed bits - but the crafty buggers found their bloodsucking way onto the unsprayed skin under my shirt and socks..!)

I'd kind of imagined vast, unfenced water meadows full of galloping bulls and wild horses, and flocks of flamingos trailing long pink legs. But the reality was far different. Much of this northern part of the delta is a patchwork of enclosed paddy fields, cereal fields and market gardens. I didn't realise how important a crop rice was in the area. In September each year Arles holds a rice festival, the Feria du Riz; and you can see rice silos sticking up like space rockets all along the wide horizons.

However the marshy vegetation was exotic - not that I could properly identify much of it - and the aroma of wild herbs sweetly pungent. And the numerous herons and egrets almost made up for the lack of flamingos. But the swallows made up for everything. Thousands upon thousands of them arced and dived over the reeds and drainage ditches lining the roadside; thousands upon thousands gorging on mosquitos and other flying insects, building up strength for their final migratory swoop into Africa.

And in the end I did see some white Camargue ponies after all:

At 5.30 pm I unrolled my sleeping bag in the comfortable, stone-built gîte d'étape provided by the Church in the lovely small town of Saint-Gilles-du-Gard. The richly carved façade of the Abbey Church was simply stunning:

Though many of the stone sculptures were sadly damaged and eroded:

After a 3 course restaurant meal the night before in Arles - fish soup with aioli croutons and grated cheese, panga-fish with tomatoes and asparagus, goat's cheese with herbes de Provence (I thought I might not get such a meal again as I intended mostly preparing all my own food on the Camino) - I shared a budget pizza that night with Reiner, a fellow pilgrim from Germany.

PS Since eating panga I've become aware of controversial issues surrounding the farming of this fish - check out the Internet for further details.

Saint-Trophime

At 9.30 the next morning I walked back down the avenue of tombs at Les Alyscamps towards the centre of Arles and the church of Saint-Trophime (1st pic). Here I hoped to pick up a Créanciale, or pilgrim passport, which would be stamped at gîtes, hostels, town halls and tourist offices along the Way - the Catholic Church's official verification of my route. (I've written about the Créanciale before here; and here's a photo of my Créanciale from last year.)

In Saint-Trophime I was ushered into the sacristy. One of the church officials explained apologetically that they had run out of Créanciales. She asked Antoine, one of the church helpers, if he could try and find one elsewhere. In the meantime we chatted about religion, spirituality and the motives which lay behind pilgrimage. I just about managed to understand and respond (in a fashion) to the metaphysics - after all, I'd barely spoken any French for a year! Antoine returned with a brand new Créanciale and requested 3 euros. It was almost 11 o'clock. The priest came in and shook my hand. "Ah, a pilgrim!" he enthused as he changed quickly into his vestments. "You'll be staying for mass? It begins in 2 minutes." It seemed churlish to refuse.

After mass I stumbled in bright sunlight down the church steps, past the beggars and into the Place de la République. In the centre of the square was a fountain and an Egyptian obelisk. On the northern side stood the Hôtel de Ville, the Town Hall. I looked back at the church's west portal, one of the sculptural wonders of Romanesque France (2nd and 3rd pics). The midday heat was overwhelming. It was getting very late in the day to begin the 1st stage of my walk. 20 km separated Arles from Saint-Gilles where I'd planned to spend the night - 20 km across the flat, baking hot, mosquito-ridden Camargue. I turned my back on the square and headed over the river into the suburb of Trinquetaille. The pilgrimage had begun.