My Chemin - a poem

Ten kilos or less of pack burden, to save the poor mule’s back

This mule, however, is willing and able to start the 500 mile track

Everyday humdrum behind me, I lubricate well for the hike

The frisson of unmet encounters, with pilgrims and peasants alike

So what would attract you to live here, said monsieur to the sunburned Brit

I see the weather has taken its toll, but dinner seemed rather a hit

The manual workers on two hour breaks, sipping wine as they talk about Proust

The manicured lanes, the yards of vine, the coq francais ruling the roost

The weather is not your friend, my friend, she’s fickle as fate in a huff

One moment she’ll shine with a dazzling smile, the next she’ll say ’nuff is enough

And blow you aside as a leaf on the ground, or drench you with gallons of wet

But you must decide if you will survive this deluge of challenges set

The Frenchies complain and see dark clouds ahead, their vision cloudy with doubt

Yet buried within they know in their bones, and ne’er is it shouted aloud

For culture and films, for landscape and wine, but most surely for gastronomy

There isn’t a country to touch La Belle France, there's nowhere they'd rather be

The mayor may rule in name here, but we know who pulls the strings

The matriarch junctions all data-flows, she directs ’most everything

She’s earned her position through grit and through graft, a lifetime of work she has done

And she does what she does for it needs to be done: if not she there's no other one

I want to make you wet, my boy, I want to make you wet

I’ll drench you so you cannot tell what’s rain or tears or sweat

You’ll never drown my spirit, I said, as pilgrim go-with-thee

Became the balm that eased all ills: abundant, present and free!

The Nasbinalesian godfather thinks the town submits to his name

What pity it is with pitiful limits this town doth his power constrain

A few dozen acres of summer-snow meadows, cattle among the rocks

Merely a waypoint of pilgrimage note, this petty mayor soon forgot

A long march averted in cold and damp, but conscience twinges away

Do I offend the great hiker above, whose purity should hold sway?

But nay, there’s a G in Gillian’s name, for “Great lumps shall I cut from my path”

And I, with a modest day’s cheat under me, shall hold my head up steadfast

The matter of honour looms large on the walk: the pride of challenges met

And after falling some way from my steed, I met a challenge I’d set

But preparedness takes all forms, I think: hydration’s of use to me

To others the matter of water is moot: they choose charcuterie

Who’d have thought that fingernail dust would cause such angst for me?

Who’d have thought a small shower towel could be a luxury?

Who’d have thought it could be the done thing to underfeed hungry pilgrims?

Who, you ask, well I’ll tell you my friend: ’tis Senos that does these things

The grind of the climb plays hard on the limbs, as breathless you reach the top

Where the sound of a perfect angel-like voice does lift the spirit aloft

And then with a newfound spring in your step you reach your day’s-end goal

The angels look down on last night’s frown, refreshing the pilgrim’s soul

A moment of absence unseated by a well-meant hearty hello

The heart-thumping shock of reverie rocked, a message of “go, just go”

The later “my name is” presented, well-timed and smiles all around

I’m sorry I nearly prevented this friendship to get off the ground

A burgeoning friendship cemented, with heaven’s tears tumbling down

A fortunate meeting with motorised pilgrims, in Renault we cover the ground

And when comes the time to go walking, for that in the end is our aim

‘Tis no longer heavily pouring, we’re winning this heavenly game

The wind and the rain are mere trifles, compared to the strength of the sun

It beats its heat upon you, it shines until it is done

If you are not ready to bear it, if you think the rays cannot hurt

You’ll shine like a ginger Welsh rarebit, you’ll gasp like a fish in the dirt

The natural way of things being that the female deer hurries ahead

The sorry stag follows behind her, his antlers bowing his head

But when she chooses to let him, he proudly reaches her flank

And off she will leap to leave him, floundering breathless to pant

After a long day of walking, and after a warm day of calm

An unexpected diversion endangers our bodies with harm

The pilgrims choose only to face it, in resolute strides do they march

And then they arrive to their hostel, inviolate attitude stark

The elegant bridge spans the water, turrets bright, angled and sharp

The Terminus art-deco hotel offers a splendid repast

The wine in this town is widely renowned, the malbec started life here

A chic little stop with its chic little shops, the market-calls catching your ear

Does rudeness know of no limit, no range beyond which it’ll cease?

When Jenny opines her coarse feelings, is there no way to seek peace?

I’m sorry to have to tell you, such comport is eighty years old

And only by prodding her harshly will she ever learn to be told

The fleeting encounters delight us, for contemporaneously

Are such meetings deep and rewarding, in binding community

For pilgrims and bards, across the long yards, find much to commonly say

We walk to find words to find meaning in meeting our kind and our kith on The Way

The Way reminds us of Flanders: the fields, not songster with Swann

(Though they wrote a glorious ditty of blood-cooling, wallowing fun)

The fun to be had in the evening surpasses a songster's delight

Music and words next’ The Virgin, at Annie’s own Little Light

Some may welcome the simple straightforward clean concrete

But though we’ve suffered the mud-ness, I prefer soft under feet

The only pilgrim respite offered when you reach Malause

Yet its only offer makes you want to cease your pause

With Dylan’s black a virtue, the Chemin full of mud

The helter skelter hillside, while clouds did chill my blood

I slip-slid into Miradoux, a creature void of form

The open door before me offered shelter from the storm

I owe a recognition regards eccentricity

The French have got collectors, their wares displayed for free

Museum left behind me, my bivouacking friend

Seeks fire to warm his cockles; I push toward day’s end

Moissac’s mud be damned, petty Castet, Miradoux

’Tis only reaching Condom where you’re turbid through and through

The athletes dressed in white as they pass th’ Olympic flame

Your cakèd legs show only that you’re playing a different game

’Tis long the green way in, and a tunnel tree-lined straight

It happens not to turn into a happy bouncing gait

The monotone of plodding, the jarring-joint of bore

You walk until you cannot ever face it any more

Little Simon whoopsie-daisy landing on his bum

His walking partners snigger, seem to find the whole thing rum

And when the gazelle passes, all the pilgrims catch their breath

We marvel at his feats across the Aussie plain of death

Half a dozen pilgrims, heads yet held up high

In taking public transport they hardly bat an eye

And in the rest day showing all their social instincts true

With conversation flowing, we drink the whole day through

The fleeting views of snow-topped peaks make aches and pains worthwhile

The end in sight, our destination closer by the mile

Pilgrims’ camaraderie not reflected in this town

The services’ up-carvery leaves us feeling rather down

Intergenerational appreciation club

Desk-bound or vocational, along the pilgrims rub

And in the evening tactlessness flows eas'ly from the Teut

But Josse’s happy Calvados turns out to be a beaut.

Never let the moaners tell you France gets nothing done

A stake in local culture and the Frenchie motor hums

The planet’s biggest tourist trap, and France knows why it’s true

They stay at home for countryside, the welcome and the food

The fortress is a bastion of culture, food and sport

A place where pilgrims congregate, their journey to report

And meetings serendipitous take place among the bars

And evening meals delicious are partaken ’neath the stars

The jaunty red / white properties belie a trend I see

Of slightly offish company: the Basque are hard to read

Do they not like strangers all a-pounding on their dirt?

Or are they fine with foreigners, their tone just merely curt?

The Basque-ish welcome offered by the tractor man is harsh

His angry fists and angry stick do stop a pilgrim’s march

Ostabat historical, the junction of the Way

In modern times a quietude has come upon this place

Although the wispy Frenchman has set a fire alarm

Although the cheese’s churning makes a nuisance of the calm

My feet light over paths through which all the pilgrims pour

And reach at last the haven of Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port

God smiled on this pilgrim as he climbed the Pyrenee

Each twist and turn did open sun-blessed vistas, him to see

In pure elation did he come down into Roncevaux

That’s it, the journey’s over; now it’s time for him to go

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