May 22: Here comes the sun

Today the weather flipped. The temperature rose rapidly to a high of 31 by mid-afternoon. The air was still, so we were sweating by 10am. We had 29km to cover, mostly through farmland, with little shade. Where there was shade, we were in steep woodland, where the mud was far from done with us, despite three days without rain. I am grouching, but only with the “facts” of the situation. We had a lovely day.

We paced ourselves and stopped early, after around 10km, for a coffee at Pimbo. An immaculately-dressed, older gentlemen struck up a conversation with me, recognising immediately that I was English. He spoke in refined, slow French, explaining that Pimbo was English-built. It came into English possession with the marriage of Eleanor of Aquitaine to Henry II. The English fortified it and, so he told me, it was defended by a battalion of 24 Gascon archers (the best), trained on the English longbow (also the best). Apparently, the current bell tower was a sniper-nest for them, back in the 13th Century.

The village is on a steep escarpment with commanding views of the plain for a hundred kilometres to the Pyrenes – the traditional border with Spain. Charlemagne established the village as a garrison in 777 CE, on his way back from a campaign to the west, a loyal place to raise the alarm (and local levies) should there be retaliation.

Our coffee, and our conversation, were both delightful, as was the shade, and the spectacular view. The Pyrennes are looming larger and larger as we continue toward St Jean-de-Pieds-de-Ports. They are a formidable, snow-capped mountain range, somehow craggier than the Rockies. We are about 80km out, with the climb into Spain to follow (in the footsteps of both Charlemagne and Napoleon – a reminder that this region has been pivotal to French political power for over a millennium).

Our next stop was in the town square of Arzacq. The single bar was, fortunately, open, with seats in the shade. We had a seasonal local beer that tasted of roses and was very refreshing (or perhaps, we just didn’t care quite so much afterwards!). That carried us through the remainder of the walk, although we were parched and footsore when we finally arrived.

We stayed (for the first time) at a working farm. The dynamic was interesting: dinner was served when the farmer came in from the fields. He sat at the head of the table, told stories and commanded the room. Plates were cleared only when he put down his knife and fork. There were chickens in the farmyard and swallows in the barn. The men of the house are 2 brothers in their 70s, still working the land from the house they grew up in, supported by a housekeeper, who runs the chambres d’hote and does the cooking and laundry. They were welcoming, happy to have their home full again, calling the Via Podiensis “miraculous”. For us it was a glimpse of different (much older) world.