Chemin de Vezelay by Denise Fainberg
There are
three things to remember about the Chemin de Vézelay: one, it is little
frequented compared to the Chemin du Puy; we met perhaps a dozen pilgrims
all told. Secondly, there is correspondingly less infrastructure: fewer
gîtes d'étape, fewer shops, and lots of pavement. Finally, the landscapes
of Burgundy and Berry are so lush and green because they are so very,
very wet.
It was early July, 2004 and Patrick and I were embarking upon the long
road that runs from Vézelay, in Burgundy, to St. Jean Pied de Port.
This Chemin de Compostelle heads southwest to La Charité sur Loire,
a foundation famous for its generosity to pilgrims and the poor in the
Middle Ages; then divides, with one branch running south to Nevers and
the other westward through Bourges, to reunite some 160 km. later at
Neuvy St-Sépulcre.
Vézelay's basilica dominates the country for miles around. It was a
daring project a thousand years ago, when pilgrim money raised its red-and-white
arches, its seasonal path of light down the nave, its airy gothic apse.
First they came to honor Mary Magdalene; when her relics were thrown
into question, they rallied here on the way to Santiago. When sculptors
on all the Ways to Santiago were carving Last Judgments on their tympana,
the masters at Vézelay carved Pentecost on theirs, with blessed rays
falling from the hands of Christ to all the peoples of the known world.
It was a kinder, gentler vision, except that this church was also the
launching site for the Second and Third Crusades. It's still a glorious
portal, despite having been marred in the French Revolution, and a fine
inspiration to the departing pilgrim. Initially we took a detour, walking
south for a week across the Morvan, the mountainous granite heart of
Burgundy. We rejoined the Chemin de Compostelle at Nevers, thus missing
the splendid Renaissance architecture of Jacques Coeur at Bourges. But
Nevers has a nice double-apsed cathedral, and the local pilgrim shelter
turns out to be the shrine of St. Bernadette of Lourdes; she sleeps
disconcertingly under glass near the chapel altar.
Between Nevers and the new Belgian refuge at the hamlet of La Croix
(42 km.) there is no pilgrim shelter. We walked 27 km. of pavement and
were grateful to find Mme. Boudot, deep in the countryside, who opens
her house to pilgrims. The next few days took us along grassy canal
towpaths-pleasant though always soaked due to frequent downpours. We
slept at La Croix where we had the isolated gîte to ourselves, but in
Charenton du Cher, unluckily, the gîte was closed. A parishioner guided
us around the town's beautiful barrel-vaulted church. One ruined outbuilding
showed a carved scallop shell above a crumbling door. Then we thumbed
a ride to nearby St. Amand de Montrond, where we lodged at the Foyer
des Jeunes Travailleurs (Young Workers' Lodgings).
A crashing thunderstorm jarred us awake. Luckily a friend, Jean-Marc,
picked us up for a visit to the nearby abbey of Noirlac and then deposited
us down the trail at Neuvy-St-Sépulcre. We felt quite guilty about this
hundred-kilometer leap; on the other hand the entire 100 km. offered
only three gîtes at irregular intervals. Given the weather we would
have been hard pressed to cover it on foot.
Though now named for St. Etienne, Neuvy's unusual church complex was
originally dedicated to St. Jacques (St. James). In 1045 a noble pilgrim
back from Jerusalem built the sanctuary on the lines of the (then ruined)
Church of the Holy Sepulchre--round, with three levels of arched galleries
rising to a central dome (shades of Eunate?). Attached is a normal rectangular
church. That apparently was used for everyday liturgies, while the rotunda
was for pilgrims bound for Compostela or to venerate a vial of Christ's
purported blood at Neuvy. On we tramped through moody Berry, now planted
and now wooded, watered by many streams and recurrent storms. Author
George Sand seems to have occupied every other village here at some
time or another; a native, she was devoted to the region and you could
cover a lot of ground doing a George Sand pilgrimage. The last two decades
of her life were spent in Gargilesse. Gargilesse really is "one of the
most beautiful villages of France". With a population around 300, it
sits on the edge of a ravine, its well-kept, rosy stone houses strung
along two main streets. Gargilesse seems occupied mainly by artists
and artisans, and tiny as it is, an occasional tour bus stops for the
view, studios, museum, and the George Sand house. We didn't mind. Gargilesse
has a superb gîte-the village has done its pilgrims proud, turning an
old structure into spotless accommodation more comfortable than many
hotels. Private rooms sleep one or two; the modern kitchen includes
a washing machine; and the dining room could be in a rural French home.
We stayed two days.
Oh yes, Gargilesse has a church too, rather austere on the outside with
a calm square tower. Inside is a fantastically spirited series of carved
column capitals, some representing (as over the portal at Santiago)
the twenty-four Elders of the Apocalypse playing their musical instruments,
and others scenes of the childhood of Christ. Unfortunately much of
the interior is green with moss; about half had been cleaned. The crypt
below is covered with 13th-15th-century frescoes; some are quite well-preserved.
A few miles from Gargilesse cutouts of Astérix and Obélix announced
Cuzion's village festival: "Cuzionix: village gaulois". Then the trail
took us along the tumbling wooded slopes of the Creuse. A thunderstorm
breaking just as we came into view of the ruined Château de Crozant
above the lake created a theatrically romantic scene (artists loved
this area). It also rendered the steep slopes very slippery. The waymarks
grew strangely neurotic, zigzagging furiously and disappearing. The
next day an Englishman offered to drive us right to Limoges, and we
recklessly accepted, hoping for less rain and more shelter further south.
Thus we missed major shrines at Bénévent-l'Abbaye and St. Léonard de
Noblat, which was a pity; St. Léonard is particularly singled out as
a must-see by Aimery Picaud in his 12th-century Pilgrim's Guide, though
for some reason he completely ignores the equally important relics of
St. Martial in nearby Limoges.
In Limoges we changed guidebooks. The Topo-Guide to the GR 654 is invaluable
with its topographic maps and background information, but it hooks south
after Périgueux to drop you finally in Montréal du Gers on the Chemin
du Puy instead of running southwest to the border; after 985 km you're
still a week from St. Jean. And it wasn't pointing us to pilgrim accommodation
we later found we could have used. So we picked up Rando Editions' Le
Chemin de Vézelay, which has its own challenges: just 905 km. Vézelay
to St. Jean, but it follows different waymarks or none, runs mostly
on pavement and has no topographic maps. And there are directions like
these: "You are now in front of the church. Turn left…"-without indicating
whether you are facing the church, away or at some angle. The best guide,
which we foolishly failed to acquire (but thirty euros!) is the yellow
folder with disposable pages put out by the Amis de St. Jacques de Compostelle
de Vézelay. Though even that one failed in spots, according to a pair
of Belgian pilgrims.
Limoges treated us to hailstorms and buckets of rain. St. Martial's
abbey, once thronged by pilgrims, was razed during the Revolution, but
Limoges' cathedral still stands. We espied two pilgrims in its dim interior,
one a radiant Dutchman walking back from Compostela with a fifty-pound
pack. In fact, all the handful of foot-pilgrims we met before Ostabat
were Dutch or Belgian men with enormous packs; we met no female walkers,
which seemed odd. We stayed again at an FJT where a neighbor complained
vociferously of bedbugs (FJTs are often a hallucinatory experience,
but usually they are clean enough). Jean-Marc rescued us once more,
taking us in and dropping us down the road in the campground at La Coquille.
La Coquille was a cheering name-"the shell"-on a trail where many memories
of the pilgrim herds have been washed away like St. Martial's abbey.
And in fact our luck began to change.
The sun came out, the weather warmed, and we trotted amiably down to
Thiviers where there is actually a refuge pèlerin in a cavernous old
convent. Next day we walked through Sorges, where the Musée de la Truffe
has an outsized plastic truffle hanging ominously over the sidewalk
(we were now in the Périgord) and the inhabitants were strangely monosyllabic,
and on to Les Tavernes, slightly off-trail, where our host Jean-Paul
found us sitting disconsolately at a bus stop. We were hopelessly lost.
The trouble with leaving the GR is that waymarks are not consistent:
sometimes there are the blue-and-yellow stylized shells, and sometimes-increasingly
as you go south-minuscule yellow arrows. These two systems do not always
agree and in some places (the Gironde in particular) actually compete
with each other. Sometimes there are no marks at all, because of vandalism
or because a district is blocking them, and for a time the red-and-white
GR blazes reappear. This all makes for lost time and frustration and
necessitates walking book in hand, which is hardly convenient. The little
yellow arrows-sometimes reduced to minute triangles-seemed the least
unreliable, so we left everything to follow them and, when they failed,
our noses. Jean-Paul and his wife Monique were marvellous. A retired
couple, they had built a small cabin in their garden where they sometimes
received pilgrims (they don't list in the guidebook; the responsable
at Thiviers had given us their number). A roof, a shower, and a meal
of generous laughter, food and wine lasting well into the night-thanks,
Monique and Jean-Paul. We were strangers and you took us in and stuffed
us to the gills.
We had been getting discouraged by the rain, the asphalt, and the scarce
shelter. And we had been missing the company of pilgrims-so far we had
met three. On the other hand, we came to appreciate the solitude, silence
and interiority of this Chemin. And hospitality became one of its great
gifts, as couples opened their homes to complete strangers, overwhelming
us with food and drink, beds with linens, even sometimes washing our
clothes. These people's love of Christ in the stranger was humbling.
Nearby Périgueux was the home of St. Front, another object of much past
pilgrim devotion, but the huge church holding his remains was damaged
in the Wars of Religion and underwent a ghastly restoration in the 1800s.
Pilgrims will want to see the simple St. Jacques side-chapel, one of
the few to be found on the Chemin de Vézelay. Sadly, when we visited
it was visible only through a grille. Friendlier to the spirit is the
lovely Augustinian foundation not far down the trail at Chancelade,
built in the 12th century and recently revived as a community and spiritual
center by Augustinian canons!
After two more étapes, through St. Astier and Mussidan, we faced a dreaded
33 km to Ste. Foy. It was a lovely but hot and exhausting walk through
the small woods and vineyards of the Périgord, over dales and hills,
some with a 15% slope. Until recently pilgrims lodged in the homeless
shelter at Ste. Foy, but this seems no longer to be the case. We were
welcomed by a beaming, sarong-clad Charly (we had apparently interrupted
his siesta) to a bungalow where we shared a large room with Belgians
Willi and Claude. Charly and his wife served us cold drinks and dinner,
regaling us with stories of other pilgrims and news items that had passed
us by. They too are one of the bright lights of this Chemin, bless them.
Of course we were too tired to see much of Ste. Foy, which was too bad.
It's a bastide on the flowing Dordogne with half-timbered houses, Gothic
churches and a Museum of Prehistory-the Dordogne region is after all
home to Lascaux and other prehistoric treasures. Besides which it's
named for our old friend Ste. Foy of Conques, on the Chemin du Puy.
Really it would be worth a rest day. But since we had taken excessive
rest days earlier we pressed on. Nineteen km. of départementale-there
were a few off it, but we missed them-took us to Pellegrue, where we
begged water from the local curé and marched unwisely through the 38-degree
afternoon and a gathering storm to St. Ferme.
The hulk of the solid abbey church rose against the blackening sky.
Its large monastic community had been affiliated with San Fermín in
Pamplona-Camino ties-but now, minus monks, is parish church to its tiny
hamlet set in miles of vineyards. It was through vineyards that we approached
the château-well, mansion anyway-of Rigalle.
Swallows nested inside the front door. It had been built in the sixteenth
century, though the front including guest rooms had been renovated in
the 1950s. Doors were low, ceilings were high and I encountered a swallow
in the upstairs hall. The very elderly owners now run it as a reasonable
chambre d'hôte. We wolfed down the beers proffered on arrival and, later,
one of the farmyard hens. (Later we discovered a wine called Château
Rigalle, from the surrounding vineyards.)
The storm never broke. We walked another very hot day to La Réole, an
old city sitting like a dowager above the Garonne. Tired and disheveled,
we stumbled into the Office de Tourisme and were sent to M. and Mme.
Moreau.
The Moreaus have been heroically caring for pilgrims for years. They
washed our clothes, gave us dinner and breakfast, and even a guided
tour of the cathedral and citadel, all in very good humour. It is an
awful lot of work daily cooking for pilgrims, washing up, then laundering
sheets and towels; and in this district, due to the dearth of gîtes,
we were handed off from one home to another as local families have banded
together to provide hospitality. This boundless generosity was one of
the gifts of a difficult and sometimes lonely trail. The next day, in
Bazas, we were taken in by another delightful pair and shared stories-they
had walked to Santiago some years before. In the morning M. Barran showed
us round the Gothic cathedral and even led us for a kilometer along
the trail, to make sure we didn't get lost. Which would not have been
impossible; this is a region of competing balisages; but after some
twists and turns the path follows an arrow-straight railroad bed, which
we followed for several days under renewed rains.
We were happy despite the rain; the paths were sandy soil, a welcome
change from pavement, through the pine-woods of the Landes. We stayed
in derelict Captieux, and in tiny Retjons whose villagers have created
a lovely pilgrim refuge; we crossed the ancient town of Roquefort where
you can actually stop and pray in the St. James chapel. Mostly we spent
long days traversing the Landes, noting tracks of deer and wild boar
in the sand, admiring the forests planted by Napoleon III and, where
forests gave way to maize, the open skies, impressive cloud formations
and equally impressive farmhouses-huge half-timbered affairs with roofs
sloping down as if brooding chicks. It's hard to imagine the swampy,
inhospitable area this was before the 1800s, and how unpleasant to cross-"a
desolate country where everything is lacking," said Aimery Picaud. We
found it one of the best parts of the pilgrimage; the silent footpaths
were conducive to recollection, and the big skies opened our spirits.
It was a fine milieu for walking prayer.
On we tramped. The village of Bougues was split on the issue of pilgrims:
the mayor welcomed them, while the caretakers of the makeshift gite
emphatically did not. (Bougues is to have a new gite in 2005; hopefully
this will resolve the schizophrenia.) Next day we slept at the great
cloister in St. Sever. We were alone in the high stone halls and thought
how unimaginably cold it must have been in winter.
St. Sever was one of the biggest monasteries in Aquitaine, founded round
the tomb of the 5th-century missionary Severus (killed by Vandals) and
rebuilt in the eleventh. We attended Sunday mass in the huge church,
which has remarkable column capitals: someone in the 1800s decided,
in a fit of medievalism, to repaint them. It's rather shocking but it
certainly brings the sculptures into high relief! Grinning lions and
exotic birds in bright hues stare down at you. It's worth a long visit
but, pilgrim-like, we had to hurry on. The Landes were behind us and
the road began, gently at first, to rise and fall. Hagetmau puts up
pilgrims in a collective tent; we shared it with Claude, a Breton who
walked in a button-down shirt and slacks and a very small pack, very
fast. He was there to greet us when we arrived, 29 km later and soaked,
in Orthez.
And now we were definitively in Béarn. In the long village of Sault-de-Navailles,
reminiscent of Camino towns in Spain, we had crossed the Luy de Béarn
on a bridge shaken by heavy lorry traffic. The increasing slopes, steep
roofs, and spreading locust trees, all spoke of the borderlands. So
did the blue-green Gave de Pau rushing through Orthez. Orthez was the
capital of Béarn in the late Middle Ages and has the fortifications
and fine stone houses to prove it. It was also an important pilgrim
stop with three hospices. The pilgrim shelter today is at the 13th-century
Hôtel de la Lune, "remodeled for greater comfort in the 15th," the plaque
outside noted. Well, there has been some remodeling since: the gîte
occupying the second floor has two snug bedrooms, a well-furnished kitchen
and up-to-date bathroom. We hung our sodden clothes to dry and dined
on salad and omelettes while Claude elucidated the fine points of welding
(his specialization) and we watched sheets of rain wash the tiled roofs.
Now we walked with a certain anticipation. Chestnuts were ripening and
contented blondes d'Aquitaine lolled in the fields. At the village of
Hôpital d'Orion was a chapel to Mary Magdalene-a nod to Vézelay? At
midday we came to Sauveterre, a delightful town of solid stone built
up into the square proportions beloved in Béarn. Many of the houses
have names and dates carved into their lintels-1738, 1816… You can sit
in the green park with the mass of St. Andrew's behind you and the sparkling
gave flowing before, and never want to leave. But you do leave, because
that's what pilgrims must do. Ultreya! We slept in the 18th-century
demesne of the Lecointre family, and crept out as silently as possible
in the morning.
It was just past noon when we came to St-Palais where the houses were
suddenly whitewashed with red or green trim, in the Basque style. Basqueland!
We were well and truly in pilgrim territory now. At Zabalik, the Franciscan
house, we were twenty at dinner-guests, hikers, pilgrims-and Brother
Yannick remembered us from last year. We stayed a blissful two days,
basking in the peaceful liturgy, delicious meals and comfortable, quiet
guest wing. So late into the journey, and it seemed we had just gotten
into the swing of it….
Just past St-Palais is the Stele of Gibraltar, marking where the Ways
from Tours, Vézelay and Le Puy become one. At the hilltop Chapel of
Soyarce we were buzzed by helicopters, evidently patrolling the nearly
nonexistent border (we didn't know it, but there had been a terrorist
explosion in Bilbao). Stupidly we got lost coming down the back of the
hill and wandered for an hour through thick forest, fretting about being
mistaken for terrorists, till we wound up back on the trail not far
from cheery Ostabat.
I don't know why it's so cheery, except that it sits between green mountains
on its own little hill, all whitewashed houses and crooked streets.
The pilgrim refuge was actually the pilgrim hospice in olden times-a
little house with two dormitories up, kitchen and bathroom down, with
dark beams and low ceilings. It filled with pilgrims!-Germans, Austrians,
and a Frenchman walking with his teenaged son. There was a celebration
in the square: three pilgrim staffs had been carried in relays down
the three Chemins (we had heard of them periodically but nobody knew
where they were), and they had all met today in Ostabat. A hundred or
so people were present, as well as a TV crew, and cider and crackers
were served. Then we bedded down snugly in the gîte and fell asleep
to the sound of sheep bells.
And then we were in the bustle of St. Jean Pied de Port with its Babel
of pilgrim tongues along the steep rue d'Espagne and banners flying
for a three-day fête. We spent a night at the municipal refuge and another
at the convivial private gite, L'Esprit du Chemin. Then, with time to
spare and full of pilgrim élan, we decided to explore a bit of the Chemin
d'Arles….but that is another story.
-
Practicalities
-
- Guidebooks: Most of the guidebooks are in French:
· Topo-Guide GR 654, Sentier de St. Jacques de Compostelle: Chemin
de Vézelay; Fédération Française de la Randonnée Pédestre. 2004.
· Le chemin de Vezelay vers Saint-Jacques de Compostelle. De la
Bourgogne aux Pyrénées. Guide pratique du cheminant, G. Véron et
J. Grégoire, Rando Editions. 2004. · Itinéraire du pèlerin: voie
historique de Vézelay, Monique & Jean-Charles Chassain, Amis de
St. Jacques de Compostelle de Vézelay. 2000, updated 2004.
There is also a guide put out by Lepère, but we haven't seen it.
The only English-language guide I'm aware of is put out by the Confraternity
of St. James in London: Vézelay to the Pyrenees, John Hatfield.
CSJ, London. However it came out in 1994 and was updated only in
1999.
- Shelter:
- In Vézelay there are three options for pilgrims (besides hotels):
the Franciscan sisters and the Monastic Brothers of Jerusalem (Frères
Monastiques de Jérusalem) both offer shelter. However they are booked
a month or two in advance. The Brothers also supply the Créanciale-not
obligatory but clarifies your pilgrim status and is good for certain
discounts. The youth hostel on the edge of town is quite decent
though, of course, it doesn't have the same ambiance.
Beyond Vézelay the picture is different. Pilgrim refuges are simply
scarce in many places. Here and there a parish, convent or family
offers shelter; often they are listed at the local tourist office.
Larger towns often have youth hostels or Foyers de Jeunes Travailleurs,
and campgrounds may reserve a couple of tents or cabins for pilgrims.
The Itinéraire du Pèlerin seems to have the most complete list of
pilgrim accommodation. Generally call a day in advance to reserve.
When all else fails, there is usually a hotel. Plan ahead!
- Food:
- The demise of village shops and cafés is even more noticeable
here than on the Le Puy route. Again, plan ahead. Some refuges do
offer meals, but see above on the scarcity of refuges. Families
who take in pilgrims usually offer supper; it's normal to contribute
accordingly (participation libre aux frais, meaning, pay what your
conscience dictates).
- Topography:
- The terrain generally is not terribly rugged. The Creuse and
the Limousin are hilly but bear no comparison to the Auvergne. But
as noted, most of the walking surface on the Voie de Vézelay is
paved, and 20-30 daily kilometers of this can be very hard on the
feet and legs. Lighten your pack even more than usual and use double-layered
socks.
- Season and clothing:
- Given the rain, summer is best though early fall may be practicable.
Light flexible waterproof hiking boots! Raingear! A fleece shirt
for cool weather, shorts and/or zip-off convertible pants, a change
of shirt, sleepwear; a light sleeping bag or "cocoon" sheet (refuges
always have blankets).
- Websites:
- www.amis-saint-jacques-de-compostelle.asso.fr
www.csj.org.uk
www.vezelay.cef.fr
Denise Fainberg, 1516 NW 4th St., Bend, OR 97701 dfainberg@earthlink.net
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