Satori

As regular readers of this blog will know, I'm very interested in Buddhism — Zen Buddhism in particular. This is not the place to go into the fascinating and complex history of Buddhism in India, China and Japan; nor is it the place to explain how DT Suzuki brought his interpretation of Zen to a spiritually-bereft Western world. Suffice to say that, simply put, there are two modes of Zen thought and practice — not mutually exclusive, but interwoven and complementary: one involves study, contemplation, meditation and discipline; the other is the spontaneous, immediate, less intellectual, more intuitive experience of koan and satori. Reflecting back on my recent Camino along the Via Francigena, it occurs to me that my illuminative moments on the banks of the Rhône were an unexpected, unpremeditated satori. Here's my account of it:

It was near to here, on a flower-strewn bank overlooking the river, that I had my picnic lunch: a superb garlic sausage, doux Fontal cheese and pain complet from the Migros supermarket in Aigle, plus a small 20 cl bottle of Aigle les Murailles white wine bought in the castle shop. It was an idyllic place, and, after the meal, I experienced one of those sublime, mystical moments I treasure so much. You never forget such rare, spontaneous events, and they cannot be manufactured or predicted. Suddenly I had a strong conviction that everything was coming together in an almost magical way: my mind, body and soul felt at one with the life I was leading out there on the road — and at one with the universe itself. My practical skills for what they were worth — knife or route-finding or backpacking skills for instance — seemed to merge effortlessly with any emotional and spiritual intelligence I might have; it was an overwhelming, deeply satisfying sense of harmony, control and insight. I have explained it as best I can, but really the experience was beyond words. This intense state lasted for perhaps five minutes, then, when I had packed up and left, the feeling was still there, but more diluted. Here I was, living cheaply and well, each day in the open air and in the heart of nature, like some vagabond or holy tramp, in good health, in good spirits, and as free as a bird . . . Indeed, I was truly fortunate.

Remember This Beauty

Leaving Chanaz, I climbed up into the foothills overlooking the Rhône valley. In this grassy compound I found, as usual, the barking dogs...

... but also, bizarrely, a mute stuffed one in a tree...

I approached the tiny chapel of Orgeval...

... where I read this touching note, fixed between plastic strands of pink plastic roses ...

The Chemin enticed me onwards along its shady lanes...

Fields of maize gradually gave way to pastureland and vineyards. Here the grapes have been picked. But where are the grape pickers?

This was a lovely spot. Note the curving track, the cows and the sinuous line of the hill...

It was very warm and sunny - just a few clouds in a blue, blue sky. The views opened up - vast yet intimate panoramas like this...

It was a wonderful day. I see that I wrote in my diary: Do not forget such days. And: Remember this beauty.

On The Banks Of The Rhône

For the next three days I would walk close to the Rhône, sometimes on forest footpaths high above the river, sometimes along its very banks. Here are my backpack and trekking poles - and yet another shell marker. It also looks like a starburst or a sun...

I passed a road bridge, Le Pont de la Loi. The mountain behind is Le Grand Colombier...

This day, Monday 19 September, was to be my last day of rain. For the rest of the trip I enjoyed wall-to-wall sunshine. Sleek, brown slugs commandeered the path. Walnuts rained down from the walnut trees. I scooped some up and broke the shells. Difficult to find a perfect kernel -  the freshly fallen ones were too unripe and pulpy, the older ones too bitter (apparently you have to keep them just a day or two - no longer). I walked through what my guide book called the biggest poplar forest in Europe, then finally, late in the afternoon, emerged at the small riverside resort of Chanaz. I was feeling very tired, exhausted in fact...

  

Chanaz was ravishingly pretty. When I was there it was very quiet, but in the summer it must be teeming with visitors. There's a marina. There are boat trips. There are picturesque backstreets with artisan craft shops and delicatessens. And there are lots of flowers...

I spent the night in a chalet on a camping and caravan site, and slept on-and-off for twelve hours. The next morning I felt so much better. It's amazing what a good night's sleep can do. I breakfasted on a café terrace in the centre of the village...

... and, at 10 o'clock (quite a late start for me), headed back into the hills, appreciating this old water-powered oil mill on the way...

A Photographic Portrait Of Seyssel

The charming little town of Seysell is a town of two departments. 

On one side of the river Rhône lies Seyssel de l'Ain, and on the other lies Seyssel de la Haute-Savoie. 

Connecting the two halves is a fine suspension bridge, built in the 19th century.

Its central tower - upon which stands a statue of Our Lady - is made of the light-coloured, locally quarried Seysell stone. 

This stone was also the stone used to construct much of Geneva, Annecy, Chambéry and Lyon.

I love these gaily painted walls and shutters.

I stayed the night at the Hotel Beau Séjour. As you can see, this riverbank hotel was hard to miss. It offered an excellent room with shower at a special pilgrim rate. At dinner in the restaurant I tried a couple of the regional white wines which excited me a great deal with their fragrance and quality: a Chardonnay (don't think boring, unsubtle, homogeneous New World Chardonnay here - this is quite different) and a local grape variety called Roussette - mineral dry, soft and light as new spring grass in an alpine meadow, flowery and fruity and pear-scented.

    

In the church of Seyssel de l'Ain I found a Black Virgin.

From Seyssel de l'Ain the welcome evening sunshine lit up Seyssel de la Haute-Savoie across the river.

To take this picture I stood under the central arch of the suspension bridge across the Rhône, halfway between Seyssel de l'Ain and Seyssel de la Haute-Savoie.