Étapes 19-21, 468km from Canterbury, 1,785km to Rome
Corbeny
The area in which I had planned to pitch for the night was perfect: flat, clean grass, privacy, removed from the road, within walking distance to the cemetery water tap. The only problem was that, despite it being a dedicated area for camping cars, there was a “no tents” sign. But there was nowhere else suitable nearby and I had to stop walking for energy reasons, so I circuited the lake before sensing it was ok to break the rules for one night. There were a couple of people fishing on the other side, and I hoped they wouldn’t mind my intrusion as I pitched my tent. But once my home was up one of them came to visit. He was, as luck - good or bad? - would have it, the President of the Fishing Association of Corbeny. I asked him if he minded me camping here. “Vous êtes toute seule ?” he queried. “Are you alone? Aren’t you scared?” “Should I be scared?” I asked him. I wasn’t sure if he was aware that the most likely threat to my safety, statistically speaking, was now standing directly in front of me asking me about my safety. I explained that I’m a pilgrim, and he agreed I could stay one night, since I was alone. “Mais pas de bazar !” No tomfoolery. I solemnly swear I did not host any hen parties that night, and I was grateful for the pitch placement.
After him came a woman on a tricycle who smiled and waved, and asked if I was ok. Then a man and his asthmatic bulldog, Athena, stopped to check if I needed anything. He brought me some water from his car, and later in the evening came back with more from his house, so I did not have to walk to the cemetery to fill up. He warned me to be careful on the roads - they were dangerous, he told me. Last October he’d had a bad accident, and described his severe injuries in detail. If I wanted, he said, he could to drive me to Berry-au-Bac, or even to Reims. We talked about beliefs - neither of us religious, but he reads the Quran and I showed him the Buddhist prayer flags on my tent. I told him the President had granted me permission to camp. “Bof !” he huffed. “Never mind him. There was a young woman who stayed here for three nights last year.”
We parted friends and on a first-name basis. I was protected by the village.
Reims
There is no sensible way to pronounce 'Reims', even for French speakers. If you clear your throat self-importantly, add the build-up of a sneeze, and harrumph “Rrrrrrhams” but without the “m”, you won't be far off. And don't forget to add the 's' at the end, which in French words is never pronounced, except for the many exceptions in which it is.
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| Saint Nicasius, a cephalophore, in the western rosace window of Reims cathedral |
As I arrived into the medieval city, capital of Champagne, with five consecutive days of walking and wild camping in my body, I found the presence of other people difficult. Pedestrians seemed to be everywhere, and their pavement trajectories, propelled by phone screens, wildly unpredictable. However I realised this was probably due to my fatigue. Later, when more rested, I couldn't get enough of them. My eyes were hungry for human faces. An arched or bushy eyebrow, an elegant cheekbone, the tilt of the chin, a smile of pleasure not destined for me but intercepted greedily. It was as if I were seeing people for the first time. I took intense pleasure from snatches of conversation in different languages, and studying their spectacles and jewellery, footwear and bodyshape. I was fascinated by people's eyes: observing what their gaze was directed at, which person or thing softened their face with pleasure.
The Albanian woman sitting outside the cathedral doors each day was called Labeya. We spoke in Italian. She told me she had six children, bambini, three grand-children, and a ruptured hernia which she showed me, pulling down her pants to display the clean white dressing. I told her my name and where I was going, and we blew kisses at each other before I drifted away across the square, and she turned her face to the sky to watch the pigeons in the bell tower.
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See more posts on the Via Francigena and other adventures here: Get in the tuk tuk, no time to explain
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