This was to be our first sojourn to France since selling a small house that we had kept for eleven years in Périgord Noir. We missed the routine of visiting our barn, but on the other hand, relinquishing ownership gave us more leeway to explore the rest of the hexagon. We had both read Robert Louis Stevenson’s book, Travels with a Donkey in the Cévennes (1879), and were keen to follow the trail through a part of France about which we knew precious little.
So on a grey April morning, we stood on the south bound platform at Stoke-on-Trent railway station, hoping that the legs of our train journey would all fit into place as planned. Our first day would see us reach London at Euston, take the short walk to St. Pancras to catch the Eurostar to Paris – Le Gard du Nord. From here, we travelled south underneath Paris on the RER (Réseau Express Régionale), a rapid transport system which dovetails with the Paris Metro. We caught the RER with rush hour underway – the double decker train was packed but very civilised.
We alighted at Gare de Lyon, took a short walk north along Rue de Bercy to the Hotel Sleeping Belle. We were allocated a spacious room on their top floor, and the friendly staff recommended a restaurant, just around the corner. À la Fregate was small and intimate, reassuringly busy but hushed. As its name might imply, it specialised in sea food. This meal was undoubtedly the highlight of the day: bouillabaisse and sea bass fillet with chorizo.
Replete, with the embers of the day still burning, we ambled to Le Pont D’Austerlitz, passing a jolly couple preparing to bed down on the street. Thick mattress, blankets aplenty, glasses of red wine: even when sleeping rough, the French seem to do it with style. The Seine was turbulent and restless, incongruous at the end of a dull, calm day. We leaned on the northern balustrade and marvelled at the floodlit Notre Dame, wounded, still undergoing rehabilitation, but refusing to relinquish its grandeur.
On the following morning, we had a bit of time on our hands before continuing our journey south. After breakfast, we returned to the Seine, crossed Le Pont d’Austerlitz and entered the Jardin des Plantes. This was obviously a serious repository of French horticulture with all the plants catalogued and labelled. But the garden, even in very early spring, was full of interest.
We were due to travel from the Gare de Lyon to St. Étienne, an old mining town just to the south-west of the city of Lyon. We had the novelty of travelling on a train with double-decker carriages and our seats were on the upper level. So we had great views of the landscape flying past albeit that the sky was of a drab monochrome grey.
At St. Étienne, we transferred to a more modest two-carriage conveyance, which climbed away from the urban sprawl and followed the valley carved out by the river Loire. The river, the longest in France, here is young and ebullient and our little train never strayed far from its valley.
We arrived at Le Puy-en-Velay still under the canopy of dark cloud. We hadn’t had rain but the sky made the town look glum. It was cold and wintry. The town seemed remarkably quiet and desolate. Our hotel for the night, an Ibis Styles, seemed drab and impersonal despite the brash decor. But we had a little time before our thoughts would turn towards supper, so we climbed the hill behind the hotel to visit the cathedral.
As we approached the impressive edifice, we noticed a café, Le Camino, tucked under Notre Dame du Puy. As we looked to find a way into the café, the clock struck six, the hour at which Le Camino was due to close. But someone within gestured for us to venture around to a side door. Impressed by this gracious hospitality, we crept in and were ushered into a meeting room in which some ten to fifteen people were huddled in a circle. This group were due to set out on the following morning for Santiago del Compostela, after a blessing at the cathedral at 7a.m. We admitted that we were gate crashers, that our ambitions for travelling on foot were much more humble. But they sat us down, plied us with kir, and told us of their association, which provides accommodation for those embarking upon the pilgrimage. Puy-en-Velay is obviously a popular spot from which to start the Camino (probably in part due to the congenial association) – 250 had set out from here in the previous seven days!
After meandering through the shadowy and atmospheric cathedral, we dropped back down the hill and ate at La Taverne Bistrot next door to our Ibis. Back home, this would be classified as a gastropub – cheerful with good food. We reflected that we had spent two days as tourists on the move; on the morrow, we knew that we had to put our feet to good use.