Stage 10 : And so into Switzerland

It was pouring with rain as we stepped out the next morning. Thankfully, Polly had a spring her step and was thrilled with her new purchases. On the main street we were stopped by someone who told us he was a local journalist. Were we walking to Rome? Could he take our photographs? Thrilled and a bit embarrassed about being local celebrities, we were snapped along with our pilgrim passports. What fun! I wonder if they were ever published.

Our route to us out of town and soon started to climb steeply. We had a rather misty view of the Chateau du Joux and a brief cliff edge walk. Then it was uphill again to our first 1000 metre mark. We descended all the way back to the road, slithering and sliding all the way as the rain poured down heavily. It really was a dangerous descent. I was much relieved when we got back to road level unscathed. Wait a minute...we've been here before. We turned up past that discount store...Hang about...So we've walked all the way uphill and all the way down it and for what??? A murky view of the chateau?


Spirits were a bit low. We trudged on along the N57; the rain bucketing down on us. Eventually, we came to a bar. We were too late for lunch, but decided to stop for a drink and get out of the rain. By this stage we only had about 5k to walk to our overnight stop in Les Fourges but we decided to sit tight and see and if the rain would ease off. It didn't. We started talking the some locals and they were fascinated by our story. They wanted to know where we were heading for tonight. When we told them, one of them (the big one who looked a bit like Obelix, Asterix's chum) volunteered to take us there in his car. We looked at each other...it didn't take us long to agree and thank him for his kind offer. We clambered into the car; sharing it with tools, broken bits of furniture, bottles, bags and half eaten sandwiches. We didn't really care. Our new chum, Obelix, somehow managed to get in the car, even tough he seemed bigger than it, and off we went at breakneck speed. We were there in three minutes. It would have taken us about an hour and a half to walk it in these conditions. We were very, very grateful. I ricked my back pulling my rucksack out of the car.

Les Forges sits on a little plateau, looking for all the world like a Swiss town. I bet they had some wild winters round here. After a shower and a siesta to ease my back, the rain had stopped so we went out for a stroll round town to check out where we could have supper. There were only two likely places. One was closed and didn't look like it would be opening anytime soon. The other was a very quiet bar/tabac type of place. We weren't too optimistic. There was no menu but the (land)lady said she could get us something. It didn't seem promising. We had an excellent charcuterie plate to start with and followed this with turkey, cauliflower and the ubiquitous chips. It was simple but superb. Polly notes in her diary that 'we have been shown such kindness.' Another great example of the generosity we have been shown in France.

After a very disturbed night, (the wind howled a gale (at least it might have been blowing the rain away) and my back was agony) we awoke to a wild sky, black and forbidding, with a shady of weak sunlight at the edges. We hoped for the sun but feared the clouds.

We were at the Swiss border in no time. It seemed to be unstaffed. We wondered if we should make ourselves known...but there was no-one around. Surreal. It felt weird as we walked out of France. We'd been walking for over a month and had such a marvellous time. I was going to miss France. Ahead lied Switzerland, a new adventure.


Yet we were both tired. My back was hurting and Polly had developed a very sore foot. We were feeling down and getting irritable and argumentative.


We were beginning to wonder whether we could carry on.

Stage 9 : Moulthier to Pontarlier

It's probably no exaggeration to say that the interior of our overnight accommodation in Moulthier was less impressive than the location. Gulp. The elderly lady who answered the door was eccentrically dressed and she seemed to sporting someone else's false teeth. When she spoke they danced around her mouth looking for, yet failing to find, a place to fit.

We were shown around. The kitchen was large and very dated. It had a large table in the centre of the room where we could prepare our food. We hadn't got a lot of it to be honest. And we were nowhere near a shop to buy more.

Our room looked like it hadn't been decorated since the fifties. The 1750s. The bed had a counterpane but no other bedding apart from an extremely soiled bolster.

I decided to have a shower to get rid of the cobwebs. Not the best idea I've ever had. The shower was in the kitchen, behind a filthy curtain at the back of the table. It was horrible. I think it was the only time I've ever come out of a shower dirtier than I went in. I advised Polly not to bother with the shower.

We ate our supper on the kitchen table (which had a very greasy tablecloth) without much enthusiasm. The cutlery had a life of its own too. The knife handles having a separate existence to the blades. They'd probably been in the family for centuries. The handles and the blades only being changed every decade or so.

We adjourned to bed, into our sleeping bags, hoping we didn't get bitten by anything in the night. Neither of us slept much, the night was interminable. In my nightmares still now, I believe I'm there, tossing and turning and hoping the night will end.

Eventually, light dawned. The sun did not penetrate into the valley but we could see it high above us shining on the cliffs and trees. We had nothing for breakfast, so were keen to get moving. Our hostess assured us we could walk straight down the river to our destination, saving us walking back up the mountain to rejoin the route we left late yesterday. It would knock several kilometres off our day's walk which we were both keen to do. It was the best news we'd heard in a while. Yes, she said, there was no need to clamber back up the mountain. Polly was cheered but I was not too optimistic. "You should be more trusting," she noted. "Harumpf,"' I replied.

We walked along the river for a while, the sun trying to peep into the valley. We soon came to a divide in the path...one fork went left, the other went right and seemed to follow the river, but it was not a very clear path. Should we go left or right? After a more than usually heated debate, the left-hand route got the vote. On we went...the route went uphill...hang on a minute...aren't we supposed to be going along rather than up??? Do we go back down again? Our own guidebooks and maps didn't help. I saw a road just up ahead so on we went to try and get our bearings from there. The path eventually reached a small road which we followed, in the direction of the river,  until we came to a huge hydro-electric generating plant. It sprawled the edge of the river and, after trying to circumnavigate it for what seemed like an age, we came to the conclusion that there was no way round it! We had no idea what to do. The river route was definitely not the right option. Had we walked along the path to the right we'd have ended up here anyway, unable to pass the hydro-electric plant. We had to laugh about the very notion of walking along the river...who's idea was that? Oh, wait a minute, perhaps she hadn't been out of the house since the end of WWII. It was the only explanation we could think of.

So, what do we do now? Our route lay some way off, over the top of the mountain. We couldn't go round it, which by my reckoning meant we had to go over it. Oh what joy. By now the sun was beginning to come through and we faced the prospect of walking up a mountain to try to rejoin our, much longed-for and greatly missed, original path.

We went up and up and around the hairpin bends for at least two hours. The sun shone. We were getting hotter and hotter and sweating profusely.  Every step of the way we regretted, more and more, staying at Moulthier. Eventually, we reached the outskirts of Ouhans. We arrived at a restaurant just in time for lunch! I wanted to crack on but Polly wanted to have a break and lunch. I guess it was a no-brainer, really. We hadn't eaten properly for a couple of days and there wasn't likely to be much else open today, as it was Sunday. In the end, we decided to splash out on a meal. Well, we hadn't eaten properly recently and we felt like celebrating finding our route again. The restaurant was quite full, but there were spaces for two. Instead we were shown to small room at the back of the restaurant at a table on our own. We realised that we must have smelled just like pilgrims. Nevertheless, we had a great time and managed to laugh about our situation. Just because we didn't want to walk for 30k in one day, how could we have ended up so far off the beaten track? You had to smile.

Cheered, well fed and watered we were back on track and only a short hop and skip to Goux les Ousiers. I looked at the guide book for the address of our overnight hotel. And then I realised we weren't actually staying in Goux...we were booked in to a place nearby called 'La Vrine' which must be around here somewhere. So we asked a friendly looking local. He shook his head and pointed to the mountain. "It's just over there," he explained, "maybe six kilometres." We looked at each other. Our hearts sank. There was no alternative. We had to march on. Our route took us up and up and around more hairpin bends for another couple of hours. Eventually, we reached the top of the plateau and we could see the hotel way off in the distance. It took us an age to get there. We seemed to walk for an hour and not get anywhere. The hotel was still a tiny dot in the distance. It was located on a main road (the N57)

When we eventually got there we were delighted to find that they had just opened. We had a cold, cold beer and adjourned to our room. A clean room! And a fab shower! What a pleasure, what a treasure. We retired to bed early without any dinner, feeling clean and tired. We slept the sleep of the just...just like pilgrims.

We woke early and decided to try our luck with the hotel breakfast. We arrived just after a coach party had left. The room looked like it had fought a losing battle with a plague of locusts. Our hosts managed to rustle something up for us and we settled on a route to Pontarlier which did not involve walking down the N57.

We had one of our best walking days. We went over meadow and farmland, spotting buzzards and sparrowhawks and thousands of swallows gathering in their masses on phone-lines for the journey south. It was a great day to be out walking.

Too soon we were on the outskirts of Pontarlier. We found a street map and began examining it, wondering whether our accommodation was on this side of town or the far side. A cyclist rode up to us and asked us in French if we were walking the Via Francigena. "Ah oui," in my best French. "Parlez vous anglais?" asked our new chum. We told him we were English and we had a hale fellows, well met moment. It turned out that he was cycling the VF and had set off from St Neots only a week ago. It had taken us slightly more than a month to get there.

We were exchanging contact details with our new chum, Frank, and professing our delight at meeting another pilgrim on the way, when along came another. Amazingly, she was walking in the opposite direction, from Rome to Canterbury.

What great fun. We hadn't met a soul and then, like London buses, two turn up at once! We said our cheery goodbyes and headed off into town.

A fellow pilgrim!

Two fellow pilgrims!!

It was time for a kit inspection. Polly's boots were falling to bits. The sole was flapping off one of them. We'd been ministering them for some time, but now it did look like we'd have to find her a new pair. We understood that rain was forecast for the following day...so it was definitely the right time to be doing it. Her rain coat was also beyond redemption. Pontarlier has a great walking shop. It was the first one we'd seen since Rheims. We ummed and ahhed about whether we should spend so much money. Eventually, we saw sense and shelled out a pretty penny or several for new kit. Just in case she needed it, we agreed.

We went to bed early and were woken several times by the sound of a serious thunderstorm.

Stage 6: Langres to Gy

Langres is another one of those beautiful walled, medieval towns. We arrived, looking forward to trying the local cheese; a particular favourite of Polly's. It's magnificently gooey and stinky especially, we discovered, when left in your rucksack overnight in the middle of August.

We walked the city walls with an audio guide; the views were amazing. We marvelled at the city's defences and the age of the walls - one bit was Roman and dated to 20BC! There were also Renaissance houses galore, another lovely city.

Our last port of call was the tourist information office to get accommodation for the next leg of our walk. Then, it was an dinner in our room and an early night.

We awoke to leaden skies and I went off to buy bread for lunch. (It was good to buy bread on the day we were going to eat it, for a change.) Leaving Langres by the south gate, we were soon out of the traffic and heading for our overnight stop at Grandchamp. It was a bit off-piste but it was the only place we could find in the 40kms between Langres and Champlitte. We had lunch by the church in le Puilly and then set off down a lush, green valley towards Grandchamp.

I'm pleased to report that Polly's log records that the cows and horses were the most beautiful and healthy we'd ever seen. I think, perhaps, she wasn't taking enough water with it. 

She also records that our accommodation in Grandchamp would probably be one of the most sociable on the whole trip. She was absolutely right. There were people from all over Europe drawn to this lovely, little hotel run by a couple of Dutch women. Our meal was very special, probably the best bouef bourginone I've ever had. Our room had a sitting room as well as a bath. The next morning we had a fried egg for breakfast. It felt like the absolute lap of luxury.

As we left the village we saw some wooden figures peering out at us from every conceivable angle from a local house. We were admiring them when the owner/artist drove up, got out of the car and invited us to look at his workshop. It was astounding! It was a shame, though, that we didn't recognise the main characters from a French TV programme that had been lovingly, expertly carved.

What a fun experience! We thanked our new artist friend profusely and set off on our way to Champlitte.

The sun shone on beautiful scenery as we made our way along quiet country roads. Champlitte itself is marked by a very large chateau at the end of the walk with spectacular views across the valley. We have entered a different part of France. The earth is rich and thick, the rivers full and fast, there's lots of forest and everywhere is green and fertile.

As we were leaving town the following morning, the local charcuterie was setting up a cooked chicken battery. I was disappointed to be leaving so early, the smell was gorgeous but perhaps not the best thing for breakfast.

It was another superb walk. Our route took us through some delightful little villages, following the local bread van. Polly spotted some rogue hops in the hedgerow. A great find! We were to find them all the way to Rome. They reminded us of home and were very poignant for Polly as her mum was a hop-picker in Kent. An unexpected treat.

The day's walking in the hot sun took us over ancient bridges and along typically quiet roads.

We stopped at a convenient spot for a toilet break. It was sheltered from the road by a hedge and a large, but slightly shabby looking statue of the Virgin Mary. There was a bench too and I started to take my pack off when the loudest scream I have ever heard assaulted my ears. I turned round as quickly as I could to hear Polly screaming, "SNAKE!!!" and, before I could move, she was 20, 30, 40 yards down the road, still screaming. My eyes were attracted to the movement near the statue and I watched, fascinated as the snake slithered under it. Brilliant. I couldn't be sure, but I think it was a common adder. It was bigger than the ones I've seen in England and...hang on where's Polly? She hadn't stopped running. When I eventually caught up with her, she was still shuddering, all thoughts of a toilet break had disappeared. 



Nope...she's gone

We arrived in Dampiere a little after 3pm and it was hot, hot, hot. Our accommodation was a gorgeous old farmhouse, covered in ivy, on the outskirts of town. Our hosts were obviously expecting us as they'd put a jolly little note (in English) on the door. It read, "Back in half an hour". Unfortunately, they'd neglected to tell us half an hour from when. Hey, what the heck...we found a stone bench, settled down to stroke the cat and waited.

When our hosts returned, I optimistically asked about the possibility of there being a bar nearby. Monsieur went into overdrive...he brought us two very large, cold, cold, cold bottles of Kronenberg. We passed a fun half hour talking in Franglais to our host before adjourning to our room.

It was a great pit-stop. We met a Swiss walker at breakfast, who regaled us with stories of his mountain adventures. He was young, handsome, very able and beautifully turned out. We suddenly felt very inadequate.

Polly's boots were causing her some problems. The soles were coming away from the uppers. A good rainstorm and they'd be letting in water. We hadn't even seen shops in most places, let alone somewhere to buy walking gear. And, of course, our walk today was quite long (25k) and it started to rain... Nevertheless, we enjoyed our day. We promised ourselves an afternoon break, but the rain persisted and we decided to keep going...The clicks flew by. We soon got to Gy.

Just Like A Pilgrim

Our night in Chalons was a time for reflection. As far as the walking was concerned, we were in good condition. We had no aches and pains and no blisters. (Well, we are experienced walkers!) We were also delighted with our recovery rate. Usually, we went to bed, tired, at 9pm and woke up fresh and ready for action the next morning. Well, ready for action as soon as we'd got our legs moving again. When we first woke up our legs were a bit stiff. We walked a little like robots in an old movie until we'd done a few exercises - but we were in good shape.

France was adorable. We hadn't met many people but those we had met had been generous and warm. We weren't entirely surprised but it was good to bury a few stereotypes.

We still felt incredibly privileged to be able to do this walk, this pilgrimage. All we had to worry about each day was making sure we hadn't forgotten anything, putting on our packs and walking. It was an honour and a joy.

And it was important we held on to those thoughts. We weren't heroes, we weren't superhuman and we certainly weren't loonies. We were just two people walking.

We'd managed to walk 30kms with our packs but, in all honesty, that was probably our limit. We could possibly have walked further but neither of us felt comfortable with the prospect. We new our limits and we weren't gonna push the boundaries too far. We wanted to enjoy ourselves too! We had to keep reminding ourselves that we were on blummin holiday. We didn't have to prove anything to anyone. It was our Via Francigena, our camino.

We'd learned to respect the rhythm of the road. It was a treat to be out in the open, in the landscape.

We'd spent some time discussing previous pilgrims and how they would have fared. There were no real landmarks this deep into France. If the medieval pilgrims came this way, they left little trace.

The infrastructure was still a problem. We were still finding it tough to book accommodation in advance. And this next section was going to be a big problem. There were two very long days of 40k each with no intermediate stopping places.

What could we do? We could try to walk 40k and look for a bus when we were on the outskirts of town. The only problem was, we hadn't yet seen a bus in France. How could we be sure of catching one now? It was a risky strategy.

And we hadn't yet seen any fellow pilgrims which was surprising. We were learning that it wasn't the Camino.
We had to find our own way on this walk. Just like a pilgrim.

After much debate and soul-searching, we thought the best thing to do was by-pass the next two stages altogether and get a train direct to Langres.

It was a toughie but it felt like the right decision.

Stage 5 : Reims to Chalons en Champagne.

We'd had lovely weather throughout our stay in Reims, but the day we were setting off again was cooler and cloudier. It was good to get our packs back on and to set off again deep into the French countryside. The first part of the walk was along the canal towpath for 10.5k. It was a gentle reintroduction to walking again after our lazy days in Reims. We shared the towpath with fellow walkers, runners and cyclists doing their Sunday constitutionals. The temperature picked up a bit. I was walking in a t-shirt and light trousers.
It was all very pleasant.

And then the dark clouds stared to gather. We could hear thunder rumbling in the distance. We marched on a bit quicker, hoping the rain would keep off. The thunder rumbled nearer, the wind got fresher. Instinctively, we stopped and put our wet weather gear on. Within three or four minutes the rain began...a few drops at first then, as the lightning cracked around us, faster and more furiously. I was a bit spooked to tell the truth. The canal was lined with trees and I was a bit scared. The lightning was followed almost immediately by thunder, a sure sign we were in the eye of the storm. But, it was over just as quickly as it had started. We were soon to turn off the canal and, as the clouds cleared and the sun came out, we were amongst the champagne vineyards. Magical.

We ate our lunch by a very famous champagne house amongst mile after mile of vines. It was a glorious sight. We walked along the road, markers every few yards announcing the name of the house to whom the vines belonged. It was a curious mixture of names, from the famous, to the familiar, to the obscure. All told of a rich and vibrant heritage we were delighted to be walking through.

Our accommodation was in a b&b run by an ex-pat Englishman who had previously been in the wine trade. We were still keen to drink the local bubbly. We asked him if he could recommend a good half bottle of champagne. To our astonishment he told us that the stuff he'd got was not particularly good, so he wouldn't sell it to us. We couldn't buy any from anywhere else because, he told us, everyone was on holiday. I could scarcely believe my ears. There we were in the centre of the world's champagne industry and we couldn't get any for love nor money. We went to bed early, after a supper of our hostel-cooked food, washed down with a nice glass of ... apple juice.

The next day saw us walking through miles and miles of vineyards, first going steeply uphill then sharp downhill along winding roads. The scenery was gorgeous, it was a great day's walking. We went through champagne village after champagne village; Verzenay, Verzy and Villiers-Marmery. The views across the vines were amazing, but, as was becoming the norm, we saw no-one.

Towards lunchtime, we set off on the lo-ong uphill climb to Trepail. We had lunch on a park bench, the wind by now cool and fierce whipping around us. After lunch we marched rather quickly, to keep ourselves warm, through Ampernay, a lovely little place, surrounded by vineyards.

It had been a memorable day's walking but the weather was deteriorating as we reached our destination. There was a sign on the hotel door which said, "Back at 15:00". We checked the time. It was 15:10.  The rain fell in sharp needles. Our hotelier arrived at 15:30 on the dot. She was about 4 feet nothing in her high heels. She was a human dynamo. She ran the hotel, the bar, cooked the meals and doled out free advice to the locals.

The next morning, on her advice, we set off along the canal towpath. It wasn't the route specified in our guidebook but our hostess assured it would be quicker.

As soon as we set off we had a great debate about which way along the canal we should go. Neither seemed to be the right direction. Eventually, after consulting with a local passer-by, we set off in bright, warm sunshine. It was a beautiful walk. We were making great progress. A canal towpath is a great place to put in lots of clicks quickly. Boats passed us on the canal, we passed them at lock after lock. It was idyllic. But I began to feel a bit of trepidation about the route we were taking. The sun was in the wrong place. We were supposed to be heading south-east but the sun was directly in front of us. We checked the compass. We were heading east. We carried on walking along the canal towpath, but a bit more circumspectly. I started to see, on the locks, place names we'd seen yesterday. I was really worried now. We stopped and took out our OS map. We looked at it in disbelief. Polly was the first to speak. "We've come along the wrong canal!" Neither of us wanted to believe it. But evidently, there were two canals in Conde sur Marne and we were heading east-north-east along the wrong canal.

A few rude words were exchanged. We plotted how we could get back on track. We had to go to Isse, 5kms back down the canal and our destination was still 16k from there. We thought we were only going to walk 18k in the day. I was worried because it was perhaps the hottest day of the walk so far and we probably would run out of water unless we could find a shop or a bar.

By the time we got to Juvigny our water had run out. The sun was scorching in a cloudless, blue sky. As usual, we saw no-one...and there were no shops or bars anywhere. Dispiritedly we looked around the churchyard. And we were just about to move on when Polly saw the door to a courtyard was open across the road. Well, well, well...there was a tap on the wall. Polly turned it on. Cold, cold water gushed out. We filled our bottles and were incredibly grateful for another fabulous pilgrim moment.

We were still some way from our destination, however. We walked into the hot afternoon along a newly built by-pass. We were on our last legs when we reached St Martin. We stopped at a bar to get a drink. The owner was just closing up. She was gracious enough to give us a glass of cold water with our fizzy pop.  I noticed that sweat was pouring off me. We must have smelled like pilgrims. We were on our last legs. I don't know if we could have gone on much further. Unbelievably, wonderfully, beautifully, our host offered to drive us to our destination. It was only about 4k but, at this stage of the day, it would have taken us well over an hour to walk. We were no mood to turn down such generosity. And we will never forget our pilgrim angel. She was a life-saver.

We'd walked about 30k on a hot summer's day. Our dinner that evening was pasta followed by steaks. We felt we deserved it. But we had crucially walked down the wrong section of a canal. We'd have to get smarter from here on.

Distance from Canterbury: 471k

Distance to Rome:                1612k

Reims

We arrived in Reims with great anticipation on our first anniversary. We had met whilst walking the Camino de Santiago in May 2008 and had kept in touch until, in August 2009, we had finally got together. We'd spent a long time planning the Via Francigena, though neither of us can remember who first suggested it. Polly had walked some of the Italian section with her friend Vickie in June 2009. I think I may have challenged her to walk the whole thing.


We'd planned to take a well-earned rest day in Reims and had booked into a good hotel. It was a Thursday and we wanted to resume walking on Saturday. Our first job was to try to book accommodation further on for Saturday night. We went to the tourist information office and got a list of b&bs, hotels etc on our route. Even when put together with the accommodation listed in our guidebook, it wasn't a very big list. I spent a frustrating afternoon and evening ringing round, without much luck. Everywhere seemed to be full for the weekend. Many of the places I rang didn't answer and  guess I'll never know whether they were full (it was mid-August in the champagne region after all), closed permanently or whether they themselves were on holiday.


So, no joy. Except one English b&b who said he might have something free on Sunday! Sunday!! Blimey, that was three nights away. Could we really spend so much time here? Or should we catch a train out of the area? Neither of us had much enthusiasm for catching a train. We'd be heartbroken if we couldn't walk through the Champagne region just because we couldn't find anywhere to stay. On the other hand, we'd seen enough of rural France to know that you just can't set off to walk and hope to find somewhere to stay en route. France just wasn't like that. We'd walked through enough hamlets and villages to know that there wasn't the infrastructure out there. We could walk all day and not find anywhere to stay. What then? Sleep under a hedge? Neither of us were really up for that. We'd walk all day if we had to, but please let there be a bathroom at the end of it!


We decided to defer the decision until the following morning. In the meantime, we booked ourselves a table at a lovely looking restaurant for that night and organised a trip round one of the champagne houses for the following morning. We were determined to enjoy our anniversary.


And we did. We had a rather splendid meal accompanied by a half bottle of champers with the fishy starter and a half bottle of red with the meaty main courses. We lounged in bed rather late the next morning and didn't have anything for breakfast! We had a shopping expedition for essential supplies, located the launderette and then set off for our appointment at the champagne house.

We had a great time. Surprisingly, we were the only two on the tour. Our guide was a young chap who, at first, seemed rather reluctant to show us anything at all. Fortunately, he warmed to his task as we asked him more and more questions and got to see the whole of the premises. Fascinating stuff...then it was back to the office for our champagne tasting. We had three very large glasses of champagne; their best seller, followed by a rose and finally a glass of vintage champagne. All were excellent and the vintage had me panting for more. "Can I buy a case to ship to England?" I asked. He looked at me as if I were mad. "No", he replied flatly, "we don't do that." My jaw was ready to hit the floor. "We don't ship anything abroad", he explained. We could do it at our own expense at our own risk, but they were adamant they wouldn't do it for us. But what could we do? We couldn't carry any in our bags. Even if we'd got the space we wouldn't be able to take any. Can you imagine how fizzed up a bottle of champagne would be after a good days walking? We were gobsmacked. No champers for us, then.

So feeling a bit crestfallen but, nevertheless, slightly squiffy we headed off to see some sights and then to do our laundry. We adored the cathedral. It was ancient and awe-inspiring. And it possessed some Chagall windows which made us very much at home because a church at Tudeley near where we live also has some beautiful Chagall windows.

But then, disaster! I'd spent a lot of money on some top-of-the-range walking trousers before we set off. They were absolutely superb, keeping dry when it rained, cool when it was sunny and warm when it wasn't. I was in love with them. We washed them with the rest of our clothes and, I must have taken my eye off the ball for a moment, they were thrown into the dryer with everything else. Big mistake. When I eventually rescued them they were completely ruined. They looked like they'd been set on fire and had melted. I was heartbroken.

We decided that we'd stay on in Reims until Sunday and arranged to move from or rather grand hotel to the local youth  hostel for the next two nights, so we cold down on or costs a little. We behaved like tourists for two days, drinking beer, doing the crossword and seeing the sights. The sun shone and it was a splendid break. For me, one of the best things was cooking a meal for the two of us in the hostel. It was great fun and we made enough to take with us for lunch on Sunday whilst we were resuming our walk.


We'd loved every moment of it so far, our only continuing sadness being the lack accommodation en route. But we were rested, healthy and in good spirits ready for the next stage of our Via Francigena.

Stage 4 : St Quentin to Reims

We were, by now, getting into the rhythm and the routine of walking. Our packs, which had seemed to be very heavy intruders at first, were fast becoming familiar friends. We were used to the weight and the fact that we were carrying everything we needed was reassuring and comforting.

The rhythm of our footsteps matched the beat of our hearts. We were having fun, singing songs and sharing laughter on the open road. It was a real privilege. Friends and relatives thought we were bonkers but, just like pilgrims, we were having the time of our lives.

It didn't quite feel like that by the time we got to Laon. We were exhausted and so decided to take the funicular (the POMO) up to the top of the town where we had booked our overnight accommodation. The funicular hurtled up to the old town at a rapid rate of knots. We had a quick nap in our hotel and went out to see the sights. Laon was a real treasure, the town was wonderful and the cathedral exquisite.

We ate in a local bar/restaurant and managed to stay awake long enough to see the fabulous Son et Lumiere show at the cathedral. We rolled into bed at midnight. It was our latest night...

We awoke to the sounds of rumbling rain and just wanted to get back under the covers. Luckily we only had a short day, but it was weather gear on and best foot forward as we descended the hill out of Laon. The rain poured but the route was quite straightforward. At least, that's what we thought...we walked into a little village and met up with a Dutch couple who we saw the previous night in Laon. They were on a cycle trip to Paris but were lost and very wet. The rain poured. Fortunately, I was able to direct them on to the right road as I'd seen the turn off for Paris at a recent roundabout. We waved them goodbye as the rain got heavier.

Our route took us across farmland and deep into a wood. The path was getting waterlogged, the mud squelched and we skirted round ever-deepening puddles. When we eventually emerged on to the road, we were soaked through and splattered with mud. We were also tired and hungry. We were in luck! There was a restaurant on the edge of the town. We pressed our wet little noses up against the window, like kids in a sweet shop. Unfortunately, it was really expensive so we decided to carry on to our accommodation and eat our groceries for dinner.

Pilgrim moment

The rain poured as we walked up the road towards our b&b and it was with some relief that we found it at the top of the road. It was a huge house. The dog barked like crazy as we knocked on the door. The rain poured on but there was no reply. Walking round the house we noticed a light on in one of the rooms. It was a gite. The French couple who were staying there were very sympathetic to our plight as we dripped on their carpet. They told us that our hosts had gone out for lunch and they didn't know when they'd be back. Nor did they  invite us in over the threshold. I noticed there was a big garage and tried to open the door. It was locked. There was a shed. Locked. We walked back to the front of the house. The dog barked and the rain poured. At the side of the house was another door. I tried the handle. The door opened! We couldn't believe our luck as walked out of the rain and into... a private chapel. A private chapel with a Black Madonna. A private chapel with a Black Madonna and a bible opened at a reading for today. What a pilgrim moment. We settled in and waited for our hosts to arrive. We waited and waited. The rain fell, but at least we were now in the dry.

I was just changing my trousers as our hosts pulled up outside; my wet underwear around my ankles. I hastily changed as Polly provided what seemed to be a well-rehearsed diversion. I keep meaning to ask her about that.

Anyway, our hosts were very apologetic. Once we were inside the b&b we put everything (clothes, rucksacks, maps, pilgrim passports, boots, humans) to dry and settled down for the night. We ate our damp cheese and bread in a very grand sitting room that wouldn't have looked out of place in the grandest of chateaux, and the ran poured.

The next morning didn't dawn any brighter, but everything had dried, except our boots. My boots were going to be a bit of a worry throughout the journey. The goretex had almost gone, they just about kept my feet dry, but only just. I wore my walking trainers and put my boots in my rucksack to dry. Polly's boots were still damp, she continued with wet feet.

We set off at a cracking pace which we maintained all day. Another lovely section through a wood, dappled sunlight by now playing on the puddles, led us eventually into Corbeny at around 2pm. Our accommodation was ok, but there was nowhere to dry our clothes. We had a delightful set meal at the local restaurant and met some English tourists who were returning from The Pyrennees. We set off the next morning for Hermonville, steeling ourselves for a long walk. Oops! I'd booked us in at Berry au Bac which was only a stone's throw away. We were grateful for a short day and saw our first field of sunflowers en route.

We also crossed a field at the edge of the woods and saw a deer! It was a magical moment. We watched it feeding for fully five minutes before he spotted us and ran off into cover. Glorious.

I spent forever trying to get us accommodation between Berry Au Bac and Reims...there was nothing. We decided to walk to the nearest railway station at Guincourt and catch a train to Reims from there. A combination of the lack of infrastructure and the French holiday season had beaten us again. Undaunted, we decided to give our tired and weary bodies a rest day in Reims and do our laundry at the same time. 

The walk to the railway station was slightly off our course, but it was the nearest point for a train to Reims. We were just in time for a train and were in Reims by lunchtime. We booked in to our hotel and headed out into town for a recce. It was a beautiful day and, as we left our packs in the hotel, we felt like tourists. We'd come a long way and felt like we deserved a break, we just hadn't bargained how long we'd actually stay.

Distance from Canterbury: 418k
Distance to Rome:                 1665k

Stage 3: St Omer to St Quentin

We'd decided not to carry tents with us. Neither of us were experienced enough to be comfortable setting up and taking down a tent every day. On top of which, we already had enough to carry without the extra weight. And I'll walk all day if needs be, but I'd like a bathroom at the end of it, please.

Besides, we'd had no difficulty finding accommodation on the Camino de Santiago, we didn't think there'd be too much trouble on the Via Francigena. Little did we know. We didn't realise how rural Rural France is. We could walk all day through the countryside and across farmland without actually seeing a house, or a shop - never mind a b&b or a hotel. Whenever we passed through a village throughout most of our walk n France, we very rarely saw any people. This was partly because there are fewer people but also because we went in August when everyone in France is on holiday.

I think the only person we'd seen so far was an 80 year old man tending his garden. When I  complemented him on his handiwork, in my faltering French, he told us about his garden, his family and, when he found out we were English, about the war. He really opened up to us, telling us about gun encampments and where all the soldiers were stationed etc. It was a lovely moment and I wish I could have understood all of it. He was delighted to have met a couple of English people and we really warmed to him.

When we got to St Omer, we went to the Tourist Office. We found a lovely b&B in St Omer and got details of places to stay on our route. I spent a long time that afternoon ringing round to get us some accommodation. Without any luck. We wanted to keep moving so, with heavy hearts, we took the decision to catch a train to Arras. We figured it'd be a lot easier to find accommodation in a bigger city.  

In the end we stayed in rooms in a religious house: in an ultra-modern, clean, sparse... umm ... cell. We enjoyed a beer and a game of dominoes in the sun outside of a bar in the centre of Arras. Arras is a lovely city but we didn't see it at its best because they were digging up the whole area around the main square.

We set off for Bapaume the following morning with a spring in our step. We were both glad to get walking again. Do you know that feeling of freedom and pure pleasure when you put your pack on and set off ... who knows where? Our route took us across farmland and past war graves, poignant reminders of how this part of France had been caught up in the wars.

Another highlight for us was, unexpectedly, finding a stone waymarker (Cantorbery to Rome sic) hiding behind a very large weed.

It was a lo-o-ong day's walk to Bapaume and when we got to our hotel, the place was locked and there was no-one to greet us. We were tired and it started to rain. I was doing a very good impression of Mr Grumpy when someone finally showed up to let us in. The place had that air of faded glory you only get from hotels that are about to close their doors permanently. Nevertheless, they served up a splendid dinner. A simple salad and a fab steak. It was all we needed before retiring to bed at a ridiculously early hour.

The next day, to Peronne, was not one of our finest memories. We got a bit confused about the route at one point. We came to a crossroads and I thought we should go right; Polly thought we should go straight on. The guidebook was ambiguous.  We couldn't work it out. The debate got quite heated.  In the end, amid much harumphing from me, we went straight on. Only to find that both roads joined together after about 300 metres. For about five minutes, we couldn't walk for laughter.



When we arrived in Peronne we mentally relaxed...which was a mistake. Our adrenaline levels dropped and, when we found out that our hotel was about 3k out of town, it was really hard to get motivated again. When we finally got there we found we'd booked in to one of those sad, soulless, chain motels and our room was tired, dirty and had a leak/lake in the bathroom. I made a bit of a fuss at reception and we swapped rooms. We went to bed early feeling a bit glum.

It was days like that one that made us wonder if we'd ever complete the trip. Our packs weren't getting easier to carry, we were struggling with walking long distances and we were getting a bit tired and grumpy.

It's funny how an early night and a glorious walk can change your mood. The next morning we were off early. The sun shone and our spirits lifted. We walked for a few miles through a wood and the dappled sunlight was an absolute joy. Our next stop was at a little village called Trefcon. We almost missed it. We knew we were getting close but were surprised there were no signposts. We'd consulted our guidebooks and maps and were scratching our heads (our own - not each others!) when Polly spied the sign. Bizarrely, it wasn't on a signpost - it was written on the road in what looked crayon. 

Trefcon was a real treat, one of the highlights of the whole trip. We stayed with a local family on their farm. We were treated to a lovely, local dinner. I tried, for the first time, Picon biere, a weird and wonderful combinaton of orange liqueur and blonde beer that doesn't sound like it should work...but it does. We dined en famille and it was a real privilege. A total contrast to the previous night. We were shown photographs of all the people who'd stayed with them since the Via Francigena re-opened for business in 1998.

We were up and about early and the walk towards St Quentin was beautiful. We sauntered between fields towards the village of Etreillers, which luckily, had a shop. We reached St Quentin in reasonable time. We were booked in to the local Youth Hostel which, unfortunately for us, was 5 km the other side of town!! Adrenaline levels were low and tempers a bit frayed when we finally reached the Youth Hostel. We were getting a bit wound up with the accommodation always seeming to be on the far side of town - adding extra clicks to our journey when we were already pooped.  

There was no getting away from the fact that we were getting tired and needed a rest day. Although, to be fair, just like a pilgrim, there was nothing wrong with us that a good sleep and a launderette couldn't cure.  

Distance from Canterbury: 275k
Distance to Rome :               1808k



Stage 2 : Calais to St Omer

We arrived in France in sunny, but blustery conditions. We had to get to Wissant, west of Calais because that's probably where medieval pilgrims would have landed in France, Calais at the time being a very minor fishing village. Our walk took us through the centre of Calais and westward out along the beach. We had lunch on the beach trying desperately to keep the wind from blowing sand onto our sarnies. Then we followed the coast up and downhill along the contours of the cliffs. We could see the English coast away to our right for most of the day.


And then we had our first mishap! Polly tripped over a stray electricity cable on the pavement.She fell headlong...I tried to grab hold of her, but got only a handful of daylight. When you fall wearing a big pack, you fall. And that's it. She grazed her knee and hands really badly. I was really concerned she'd done some lasting damage, but she's made of strong stuff.

We continued climbing the coastal path towards Cap Blanc Nez. There are lots of reminders of World War II on the route with dark references to guns aimed at Kent. And the wind, which had been shifting all day, finally settled down to blowing a gale direct into our faces. We had to walk the final mile or so along the beach and, to compound Polly's misery, the rain began to lash down and wind swept up the sand straight at us. My glasses protected my eyes from the worst of it, but Polly, wearing contact lenses, had eyes full of sand and couldn't see. She staggered blindly along the final part of the route, holding on to me and feeling pretty miserable. Quite an end to our first day in France.

When we set off the next morning, Polly's walking trousers newly darned, the weather was still wet and blustery. We had a little look around the town and found the place where Thomas Becket sailed from to return to England and face the wrath of Henry VIII. When we eventually turned inland the sun came out and the wind dropped. We walked through beautiful countryside, rural France is particularly lovely in August, fields of wheat and corn and views that stretch for miles. For fully five minutes, we were lucky enough to stop and watch a pair of hares going about their daily business until they caught wind of us and sped away.

Our accommodation for the next night was on the outskirts of Guines. We almost walked past it but Polly's eagle eyes spotted it as we crossed over a roundabout. Our guesthouse was actually in a holiday village and I, taking advantage of the facilities, took a load of clothes to the launderette. Keeping our clothes clean would prove to be a big challenge over the next three months. (We were only carrying three of everything, shirts, trousers, pairs of socks, underwear...and by the end of the trip, despite our best endeavours, we would get very smelly. "You smell like a pilgrim" is a big insult around here these days.) The evening was so lovely, hot and sunny, we ate outside. We treated ourselves with big juicy steaks and a lovely bottle of red wine.

Before we left Guines the next morning, we went to Tourist Information and booked our overnight accommodation in Alembon. We wanted to stay in Licques but every hotel, b&b and guest house in the area was booked up. Little did we know, but this was going to be a pattern in Northern France. We'd chosen to start our walk in August, just when most of France goes on holiday too. 

It was another fab day's walking through rural pastures along farmtracks and ancient paths. We had another history lesson too. The area is famous as being the location of the Field of the Cloth of Gold. We also encountered our first woodland walk, the dappled sunlight shining spotlights through the trees. Lunch was Camembert and bread, washed down with apple juice in a lovely glade. Heaven.

And then, of course, we got blummin lost! We thought we'd followed the directions in the guidebook diligently...but soon the path had disappeared and we were staggering around in the undergrowth. It was a scary fifteen minutes or so before we emerged back on to the main path. Tired and breathing huge sighs of relief, we eventually walked into the little village of Alembon. 

Our accommodation was a small b&b that was friendly, modern and very, very charming. We were the only guests and our young hosts fed and watered us royally with a charcuterie, a delicious homemade quiche and a bottle of local French beer, amusingly called Goudale.

The next morning our hosts showed us the cross-country short cut to Licques, which was great because, by the time we got there, it was raining. We followed the Via Francigena signs towards Wiscques which proved to be a big mistake ... the signs ran out ... we were miles away from anywhere our guidebook mentioned. And it was still raining. We had no alternative but to put in a lot of clicks along the main road, arriving into Wiscques at about 7:30pm, having set off at 9:30am. Exhausted, having walked more than 20 miles, we showered, ate well in the restaurant and were tucked up in bed by 9:00pm. The restaurant was delightful, it looked out over the fields towards St Omer...which was not on the route but we'd go there anyway.

I tried ringing every hotel, b&b in the area but everywhere was full. When we were checking out, I asked at reception if they knew of anywhere. But it was a fruitless search. We decided the only thing to do was to walk into St Omer and take our chances there. It was well off our route but a very welcome easy day's walking, We found somewhere to stay without too much trouble (a lovely and very French guest house near the river) and tried ringing round to find accommodation for the next day. It was hopeless. We asked at Tourist Information but everywhere was booked solid for the weekend. I think that's when I uttered the famous words, "It's not like the Camino", for the first time. On the Camino you can always find  somewhere to stay. Rural France was just not like that at all. Just like medieval pilgrims, we had to find somewhere to sleep.

Distance from Canterbury : 115 km

Distance to Rome                : 1968 km