The church as refuge

I promised more copy on the process of pilgrimage. Which seems a little pretentious because we were only a week on the chemin at the beginning of June; we were going the wrong way; I don't believe the credo. Nevertheless we chose to walk the GR65 because it was the direct continuation of my solo run from Santiago to France in 2004. the GR65 also happens to be the Via Podensis, one of the main pilgrim autostriders to Santiago de Compostella. 

Actual practicing religious pilgrims are a minority, even amongst those who are collecting stamps in their credentials along the way towards obtaining their Compostelle certificate when they finally arrive at the City of God. The Boy was toting a [gîte and restaurant locating] device with access to GBs of data. On about Day 4, after asking for requests, he fired up Spotify to play a bewildering number of different versions of Ultreïa. He was in his on-line element. A while later, noting ear buds attached to a hiker, he stopped the feller and offered to swap Spotilists. The other chap wasn't interested: he was listening to prayers with an occasional break for Gregorian chant.

Compared to the Spanish section of the Camino Frances, the Via Podensis not too busy, it doesn't require crampons and is reasonably well served for dinner bed and breakfast . . . and water.

Nature I loved, and, next to Nature, Art Water I loved, and, next to water, shade:

The striking commonality of all the medieval churches along The Way is how chill they are; even if the sun is broiling your hat outside. Cool and quiet, a bit dusty, maybe; but there are seats and anyone can afford to take five minutes for reflection. If you can't spare five minutes in your race to the next hostelry; then your need to take 15 minutes!

Churches have graveyards, graves have flowers, so there is usually water somewhere in the churchyard. If it is roof-water caught in a rain-butt, you may not fancy drinking the stuff; but you can slop some over your face and neck. Several isolated churches announced the presence of eau potable from a reg'lar tap. Fill your water bottle chaps, it may be 10km to the next village. 

We had planned to stop in the village of Pimbo on our penultimate night but had been advised by a kind and energetic fellow earlier in the day to push on to a magical gîte in Miramont-Sensacq. But the church in Pimbo had a pretty garden and an invitingly cool interior: so we stepped inside. There to find that the parish recognised that some travellers might be penniless but nevertheless need shelter:

Yes, a rough blanket and a sleeping mat will be sufficient. It was now 13:20hrs, we were 2 hours from Miramont and day's end. We could power onwards in the hope of getting the best bunks . . . or . . . we could wait until 2pm when the gelataria in the square opened. "Black cherry for me" I announced and sacked out under a tree. When I came to, The Boy was coming out of the shop with two bowls of ice cream and two ice cold drinks. "Black cherry sorbet for me", he said "and I couldn't resist a boule de stracciatella on the side".  And that, folks, is how the village became known as Pimbo-les-trois-boules.