Wednesday, July 6, 2011

Lourdes to Thiviers

Monday 4 July

Well, made it to Lourdes, tagging onto the 6 million odd pilgrims who'll come here this year.
Lonely Planet comments, "despite the spiritual importance, genuine holiness is a little harder to come by".
Wouldnt quite agree with that, but I'm astonished to see its a souvenir town, this place is huger than Sturgis, no T-shirts, but everything else religious, crucifixes, Marys, theme bottles you can put your water in, candles, you see some people on their way to the Grottos with 6' tall ones on barrows, and an endless procession with small candles in hand, liveried up in church-group colours, or like one lot in World Multiple Sclerosis shirts.
Multi-storied hotels line the streets, molto-supra tour buses fill them, hear lots of Italian spoken, stop at an Italian cafe for a coffee and overhear what seems to be English, then flick its Mick, Irish. Lots of men in collars, just as many in monk habit, and double that for nuns and nurses.
And the lame, maimed, and old, and even see one chap being wheeled in on a gurney. Touching scenes, a middle aged man hand in hand with his doubled-up bent-over father, handicapped in wheelchairs, kids in mobility scooters.
And beggars, again they look like arabs, one woman's got her head in a scarf... still, its said many people spend their life savings to come here.
I find the main Grotto, sit in quiet contemplation, I dont want for anything, so I settle on hoping everybody lining up to go in, touch the cave walls, and kiss it as well, get all they ask, and dont pick up germs from the 6 million other kisses and touches, and theyre coming in from all over, Italian, Espagne, Japonois, Korean, Afro people...
I still dont feel I've got it exactly right, till I change my quiet little orison to, I hope they all get what they deserve, and I repos a reverent hour.
The place got its fame when, in 1858, a 14 year old girl saw visions of Mary, confirmed as bona fide by the Vatican, and she was beatified in 1933.
Again its a holy place I'm not of the faith with, I'm sort of an imposter, and the Maori in me is itching to go wash my hands, so I go to the washing wall, so now I'm at one with it all. Nothing happens, not even a bolt of lightning to strike my infidel soul.
I find a cafe instead of a cave, and try a Holiheineken water, oddly I feel something working, and after another I definitely do feel different.
Lonely Planet's on the button, the eateries are tres ordinaire in this town, I have steak and chips streetside, the hotel restaurant isnt open Mondays. The steak is another pattie disguised as ground Charolais. Actually, I meant to report I've regularly seen one dish of raw ground beef, it comes with a bowl of dip like you have for dipping bread, oil with chopped up herbs and other greenery in it, the diners stir the lot together before relishing it. Now thats what you call rare...
The amount and variety of meat on menus here, and what gets killed to supply it, is almost disturbing, but like USA and its meat eaters, great for us Kiwi producers, and a blow against the activists who drivel meat production is destroying the planet. 
Could mention too, whole families going out dining often include the dog, mostly little terriers or bichons, that fosick round the tables and look up at you with hopeful faces.
Referring Mayle again, he and his wife attend a Provencal dog show, rows of breeder's puppies lined up for sale, and the wife is ooh-ing and ah-ing over the cuties, a raffle seller approaches offering a range of prizes including a mountain bike, a micro-wave oven, a shotgun, and a maxi saucisson (sauce making pot). Mayle mutters relief the puppies arent part of the prize, and the ticket seller leers, "you never know what might be in the saucisson", and then spotting the horror in the wife's face, quickly pats her arm, "non, non, je rigole", (just pulling your leg)
It was a tough ride getting here through and over the Pyrenees. Started off hopeful enough, no rain, and climbing out of St Giron, mid-point in Stage 15 of the 2010 Tour, caught up and passed the cycling-holiday group from the hotel, and a heap of other hopefuls out on a ride.
This mornings soliloquy was Belloc's 'Tarantella'
Do you remember an inn Miranda, do you remember an inn?
And the tedding and the spreading of the straw for a bedding
And the fleas that tease in the high Pyrenees
And the wine that tasted of tar
Do you remember an inn?
Funny what sticks in your head, primary school headmaster's teaching example of onomatopoeia dredged up from the cranial hard-drive.
But it did start to rain, so on with the leggings and flexi-tech mitts, which eventually got more water inside than out. Back on the farm I've given up wearing gloves in the rain, nothing works and they impede the simplest of tasks like opening gates. So they got put away, and it was back to just my kid-skin gloves, they dont feel wet, dont sweat inside, mould to the skin, are warm, and dry rapidly in the airstream. No argument, the best gear to wear on a wet day is a warm hotel room.
The road's well marked with TdF route arrows, start and end of climb stages and more urgings to favoured stars, Andy Schleck must be huge all round France, but I do spot one simple dedication to my hero, 'Lance'.
The GPS isnt co-operating this morning, I've way-pointed the villages on the stage, but both fastest, and most direct route fail to take me over a high col, despite the route arrows on the road pointing up into the mist. The GPS circles me through the same village 3 times as I fight to find the way, and embarrassment, circling the same cafe audience, so I consult the Michelin road atlas, the road isnt marked as paved, or map must be out of date, but its still raining, and I dont like the thought of disappearing up into the cloud, in fact at times I've been above it, so I flag it, and re-route to where that col track rejoins.
Nothing much lost, I'm back following road-mark arrows, somewhere, Col de Portet d'Aspet actually, I've passed the memorial shrine to Fabio Casartelli, who died age 24 in the '95 TdF, in a 55mph downhill crash. I've been in a cycle race support vehicle in Italy years past, a Lancia, struggling to keep up with the peliton doing 70kmph down the switchback hairpins. These guys negotiate these roads faster than I am on the Bandit, no fancy armoured jackets here, no helmets a lot of the time either. When I was doing a bit myself, I once asked vet cyclist Bill Main what was his advice on how to manage taking a spill. I was expecting something like roll technique, or what body part to land on, but after little hesitation he just replied, aim for the kerb, you'll be less likely to get run over by a following car or truck. 
Tour de France memorial Col Marmelot
At the bottom of Col Marmelot, fantastic place to go skiing up there, the rain's gone away and I get a French sandwich to placate the growling down under. From there its a fast run into Lourdes. I passed a couple of foxes up in the hills, the cols get up to around 2000m, the peaks around 3000m.
Nice hotel again, the bikes under a tree in a private park, the receptionist infers nothing gets pinched round here.
Morning now, Tuesday 5 July, enough time to scope out the chateau on the hill overlooking town, just 5 mins walk away, great how booking.com can place you so accurately for an overnight stay.
Dont have to climb the hill either, there's a lift to take you up to the ramparts, and a very good self guided path through the museum and around the castellations, a veritable boys play fort, but serious in its heyday, you can imagine firing muskets through the slots, or in earlier times, dropping hot oil over the side.
After the place got over-run during the Revolution, it did a term as a state prison. The latrines are amusing, through the floor slots, you look out into space.
View from Chateau Fort, Lourdes
Reminds me of my years ago visit, in a 2 storey country home, not insubstantial, I innocently asked for the toilet, was taken to the upstairs master bedroom, the closet opened, clothes pushed aside, and voila, there was a beaten brass pan, pull the chain, a little flap opens, and I can see grass outside through the hole. Might as well just have walked behind the house, I guess all the other men did.
Different story today.
I'm amazed at France's infra-structure. Pretty near all the rural village situations I've stayed in have mains water, and some, sewage service, despite being miles away from main centres, and as mentioned before, all the roads are good. Often I've seen farm homes and out-buildings roofed totally with solar panels. Have had no compunction anywhere, to drink cool clean water straight from the tap. No worries about getting gas for the bike anywhere.
Found another good wayside patisserie for lunch, beside N21 at Auch, this one has seats inside in air conditioned comfort, and a coffee machine. I choose a couple of tartes, a strawberry, and a pear in light caramel jelly over custard one. I pick up a local newspaper and start reading, the madam behind the counter keeping an eye on the gaijin who dont speak Francais all that good, but appears to be reading it.
On the front page is another story about a bad road accident, 19 yr old boy killed, his 20 yo mate in coma at the hospital, lots of usual why question, the engine is found 30 metres away from the wreck. Had a near miss myself this morning, following a car when suddenly another materialises on my left shoulder straddling the centreline, wanting to overtake us both, but a cars coming the other way. Then the one in front anchors without warning, flips his signal to turn left, and the 4 of us are in a 60kmph dance, 6' apart from each other. I spot up the 10' of clear space to the right, but dont need it as all 4 of us go our separate ways as quickly as it all came together. I rev up and get on the tail of the silly bastard who nearly caused the pile-up, I'm not going to pass him, I'm just going to annoy his french passion to be in front for a few km. The wagon's got a couple of kids in it, easy to see where the young generation learn their foibles.
The paper goes on to discuss the DSK scandal, ongoing, a pretty young reporter has popped up from the woodwork alleging more instance of a bit of the old frottage, while on the sports page there's a pic of the local rugby team in training, a jumper being hoisted in a mock line-out, and detailing how a last minute substitute won a game, they play in summer?
I move onto the horoscopes, hey I'm getting the hang of this francais, my amor prospects say why not more pleasure, loosen up, give freer rein to it... ouis d'accord to that.
Next to the stars is a column that causes a laugh, and the madam behind the counter shoots me a peripheral look of disapproval when she see what page I'm at, an ad starts, "J.femme, (presumably the J. means jolie), sexy et tres coquine realise ts vos fantasmes erot" then a phone number.
They got it all here en France.....
and I head off down the road with a new hum in my head...
"They got everything Tahiti got...
they only no got, l'coconut...
See, I even rigole en Francais now, you can get at least 2 meanings from that statement.

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