For the first time in the thirty days of our trip so far I have been brought to tears, low enough to genuinely wish to go home and stop all this nonsense. And it was our accommodation last night that brought me to this point.
We've had cold or disappointing places before - every other night this week, in fact. But though the vision of home has surged in my mind at those times, I didn't really mean it.
This was different, because it ought to have been wonderful.
It was a charming, mid-nineteenth-century farmhouse built around a courtyard next to the farm which brought the family its wealth. It had been in the same family for generations, and now they offered a single guest room - spacious, furnished with heirloom antiques and quality fabrics. There was a separate salon for us to use, a little kitchen and a candle-lit dining room where we were served a delicious evening meal and the usual light breakfast.
It ought to have been wonderful: that's the point. I've come to learn that the French landed gentry, proud of their inherited houses and furniture, are niggardly. Their houses are expensive to run, so they lock the heating down low and are blind to the concepts of tea and coffee, hairdryers, soap or spare towels. They put plastic matress covers under the sheets, like a geriatric hospital. In another such house this week we'd been forbidden to draw the curtains or close the shutters to keep out draughts, in case the sixty-year-old fabric gave way.
Last night it was the thwarted promise of so much that defeated me - and the ungracious way it was all delivered. The manic jollity of our jack-in-a-box hostess, her "Bon appetit!"s and "Bonne nuit!"s lasted a bare few seconds before she disappeared from view, leaving us to sort things for ourselves. We had wanted to ask for some old newspaper to dry our boots, and for the weather forecast. But pooof! she was gone, in her sagging track suit and good haircut, leaving only a large bill.
In defence of the establishment's ability to reduce me to tears, it must be said that later in the day my period started. Such are the additional scourges we female pilgrims have to overcome.
5 February 2008
We've had cold or disappointing places before - every other night this week, in fact. But though the vision of home has surged in my mind at those times, I didn't really mean it.
This was different, because it ought to have been wonderful.
It was a charming, mid-nineteenth-century farmhouse built around a courtyard next to the farm which brought the family its wealth. It had been in the same family for generations, and now they offered a single guest room - spacious, furnished with heirloom antiques and quality fabrics. There was a separate salon for us to use, a little kitchen and a candle-lit dining room where we were served a delicious evening meal and the usual light breakfast.
It ought to have been wonderful: that's the point. I've come to learn that the French landed gentry, proud of their inherited houses and furniture, are niggardly. Their houses are expensive to run, so they lock the heating down low and are blind to the concepts of tea and coffee, hairdryers, soap or spare towels. They put plastic matress covers under the sheets, like a geriatric hospital. In another such house this week we'd been forbidden to draw the curtains or close the shutters to keep out draughts, in case the sixty-year-old fabric gave way.
Last night it was the thwarted promise of so much that defeated me - and the ungracious way it was all delivered. The manic jollity of our jack-in-a-box hostess, her "Bon appetit!"s and "Bonne nuit!"s lasted a bare few seconds before she disappeared from view, leaving us to sort things for ourselves. We had wanted to ask for some old newspaper to dry our boots, and for the weather forecast. But pooof! she was gone, in her sagging track suit and good haircut, leaving only a large bill.
In defence of the establishment's ability to reduce me to tears, it must be said that later in the day my period started. Such are the additional scourges we female pilgrims have to overcome.
5 February 2008
6 comments:
Hi pilgrims!
As part of a discussion on the Santiago group website, someone suggested I looked at your route.
www.pilgrimage-to-santiago.com/board/pilgrim-introductions/topic3624.html
I couldn't help noticing you seemed a bit down, so I thought I'd write and cheer you as best I can! Every time I've done a trip - cycling or walking - there comes a day or even a few days at worst when it all looks a bit bleak. That's part of the experience and a very important part. You can't be on a continuous high, and the low times are no more real than the high times. Overall the experience is a mixture of both and a distillation of a range of emotions. One thing is for sure: the Way toughens you to things emotionally as well as spiritually, and you have to allow the Way to teach you. Buen Camino!
I'm having trouble with this technology. I can't seem to remember my password or something - anyway it seems awfully hard.
There are bound to be downs - makes the ups better.
We men are meant to have a monthly cycle too, but no one asks much about that.
So it goes.
Michael
Thank you for your comment, Gareth. You're right, of course and we have bounced back. Though the sunshine takes a lot of the credit. I feel we are gettign to know (accept??) ourselves nd each other as we go on.
And Michael - I do try not to let David be right, but diplomacy requires it! I'll pass him your message to sqash him. As for cycles, it could be infectious, of course. Hope you're still keeping the cultural flags flying in London - you'll have to fill us in on what we've missed. Full critiques expected!
I guess I should call myself Mike to stop confusion. I am keeping cultural flags flying , but it's hard in the Braid and the culture often leaves a lot to be desired. They are big into Johnny Cash and Elvis impersonators here.
Mike (one day I'll get to grow up and have a proper name) Bird
Indeed, I don't suppose you'll get beyond Mikie to us - or maybe Mike if you're good. But don't do your culture down - that's fine singing voice you've got there yourself ... perhaps you should get a silvery lycra suit too?
Love to all the girls from us both!
Rae
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