Southwest France - a day in transit

Well, this morning (Wednesday) in Nimes, I was not feeling quite well - a sort of funny tummy.  It never led to anything alarming but was just uncomfortable.  Still I managed to getup and dressed - in normal clothes. No more hinking clothes - they were all bundled up and ready to go. Barb and I wanted to mail clothes home that we'd not want for the next two weeks. We were directed to La Poste, where for 39,85 Euros I could put together a large box and stuff the hiking clothes into it.  Even my hiking hat fit in. Only the trekking pole would not fit.  And except for that pole, I was rid of a bunch of stuff.  A slight feeling of freedom.

We strolled just a bit to a nearby statue of Augustus Caesar (I think)

surrounded by huge blocks of stone that may have been a memorial arch many centuries before.

But I still did not feel quite right, so I rested in the hotel lobby until the taxi came at 12:30 to take us to Nimes' train station..

At the train station, we tried to figure out how to buy tickets to the city of Sete from the big yellow SNCF machines, but hoped to find a live ticket seller. By great chance, our hostess from Collias, Marie-Agnes walked up to me, happy and surprised to see us there. We explained that we were having a bit of difficulty getting tickets. Marie-Agnes' daughter, Justine, was quite familiar with the machines. She stepped right up, asked a few questions, punched a few buttons, was delighted that we could each qualify for the "senior discount". But then the next barrier came with our credit cards and our debit cards. None of them had the required "chip" on the front.  So our clever hostess used her credit card, and we each gave her the cash.

I like French train travel. No matter what the train is, there are always clear instructions as to the track number or letter as well as where to await the train car. Every train seems to run on electricity, so they are fairly quiet as well.

We detrained at Sete ready to eat a bear. Fortunately there was a place where we could get sandwiches (why are they always made with baguettes?) and a cold soda - or beer. The train station is pretty far from where we were to spend the night - - like the opposite side of the city. But the hotel (called Joie des Sables) was right on the Mediterranean Sea, a place that we had been nearly panting to visit.

So we jumped into bathing suits and headed across to the water. The beach was protected by two breakwaters that curved around like protecting arms.

The water was a lot saltier than I'd expected, and a lot colder. I think I walked til the water was past my knees, but that was far enough for me. My friends were braver and went all the way in. The beach sand was very tan and fine, with tiny shell fragments scattered throughout. The wind blew strongly from the west, and I could feel it stinging my skin and getting between my teeth.

The hotel's restaurant was pretty nice, the service was slow, but the oysters (local, of course) were superb - out of this world. Way saltier than the local Virginia Chincoteagues.

Salmon was also superb. And the vanilla ice cream "Madagascar" was really very good. After rooming solo for several nights, I suggested that Barbara have a bit of solitude - she'd gone to some trouble to find this hotel for us. Pat and I got along fine and we read into the night. And so ended the day in transit, September 11.

And I must have read quite a lot, because the sun rose without me. Today we were to transfer to the Grand Hotel, the "official" pre-conference tour hotel for two nights. But checkout was not until 11:00 so we walked across the beach again, this time looking for shells. And there were many many to be found. Altogether a quiet and peaceful morning of beach-combing.

A treasure hunt.

We wandered over to one of the marinas there and met with a surprise. Two of the "water-jousting" boats were moored there. They are eight-oared boats with a long, wide but shallow ladder extending from the bow, with a platform at the end. According to postcard pictures, the "jouster" stands with his lance on the platform, the rowers race the boats toward each other, and the jouster attempts to "unhorse" the opponent.

Getting to the Grand Hotel involved a little adventuring - - to take the local bus, we walked down the street, around the round-about and up the hill to a bus shelter. The first bus was ours - it's destination was "GARE", the train station. However, the bus driver didn't quite understand my request for the "Hotel Grand". We were at the Gare when he turned back to me saying " Le Grand Hotel?"  I nodded yes, and he indicated that we wanted the third stop. And so it happened. There we were.

Sete is a small city on the Mediterranean Sea, criss-crossed with canals and waterways; lots of fishing boats, ferries, and pleasure boats as well.

The Grand Hotel is quite a piece of architecture - late 19th century styling, with a huge atrium in the center and most of the rooms off of very narrow walkways. Lucky me:  I don't like heights, so of course I was on the third floor, at the far end of the atrium from the elevator. The building was so old that the stone walkway to my room was worn in the center from over a century's worth of footsteps.

That walkway pictured upper right was way too narrow, but my suitcase did roll along nicely.

So around two in the afternoon (14:00 hours over there), our group of 32 or so climbed aboard the motor coach and drove off to Agen to see the round lock,

Some of us were amazed that this large boat fit into the lock.

then to the Libron crossing (which was a terribly confusing way for a canal to cross a river),

This boat has passed the complicated part.

despite explanations and diagrams, I don't understand.

and a quick look at the Orb aqueduct (I think).

From coach to open-topped boat for a trip across the Etang de Thau, which is a shallow lagoon, filled with oyster and mussel farms, and that particular afternoon it was covered with whitecaps.

Can I name everyone? last row = Keith and Judy Kroon, then the Chinese student, Padraic, Jilll and Cliveseveral unknowns, then Dan, Rod, Susan; a Brit whose name escapes me; Roger Squires; and right in front is Kerry Gruber.

First row = Dave Wahl and wife; Chris and Bill Holdsworth; Duncan Hay and Peter Anderson, with Carolla Grasso in the dark glasses

Indeed the water was choppy and in that open air boat we in the front got splashed - a lot. The point of going out there was to hear from the boat's driver a description of raising oysters (pretty complicated).

Little oysters ("spat") are first grown in these mesh thing that dangle from permanent structures in the lagoon.

These horizontal and vertical pieces constitute the oyster farm; growing and maturing oysters are suspended from the horizontals into the water.  At various stages they are checked, and about a year later they're harvested.

What's unique about the Thau oysters is that they are, from spat to finished, always in water. There is no tide in the lagoon, so the animal is never out of water. Is that why they are so salty?

Dinner was quite a few blocks away, at a place called "La Marina". I've forgotten the first course; the second was monkfish, which was fairly good but had a large chunk of what appeared to be spine! I won't ever forget the dessert - - a small chocolate baked thing with a large fiery "fountain" shooting out of it, along with a quite loud round of the Happy Birthday song for my 73rd birthday.

Fireworks for dessert?

That was my birthday candle.

Some time between the boat ride and the dinner, Barbara and I went to Monoprix to look for something to replace the white fleece jacket I'd lost on our very first day there.  I ended up with a brown cardigan sweater, fairly thin and light, but better than having nothing. A birthday present to me.

Southwest France - end of our hiking

On this, the last hiking day, I slept reasonably well, awakening in darkness at 3:47 am.  What's with that? Back to sleep soundly, until the alarm, at dawn.

Sunrise over Collias

The breakfast here was the best yet.  Not only outside "en plein air," but Marie-Agnes offered good yogurt, the usual croissant and baguette, butter and homemade confiture, but also asked if we'd each like a boiled egg.  The unanimous answer was "Yes!"  She was very sweet and maternal and practical - saying we'd need that protein for our walk.  Of course, she was right.

Boiled eggs kept warm in the bell-shaped covers.

As we walked back through Collias to the trail, we passed a baker kneading bread in his store window,

I would have thought 9:00 was a late hour to be baking.

passed beneath the first arch of the Collias Bridge,

then walked away from the river onto tarmac, and after several right turns and going upward, walked a long way between forest on our right and cultivated land on our left, and a small mill dam.

Fairly high up on a ridge, between sizable estates, we passed a sign warning "swim at your peril" . . . Probably a reference to the river way down that lane on the right?

 There was also a ruined church, then a stone wall with a plaque marking the high point of the 2002 flood ("crue").

Finally, through the trees, we had a view of the grand Pont-du-Gard, along with a very welcome bench.

I think I was sitting on the bench.

At this ancient monument we were definitely back among the modern world now.  We walked past a large group of French walkers seated on the ground eating lunch.

There were folks down on the river bank lazing and lunching, kayakers in the river and on the beach.

My first few views of this beautiful monument after a two year absence made me tear up a little.  It was constructed some 2,000 years ago, by men who clearly knew what they were about.  It has remained intact and with us today.  There is beauty and elegance and grace in the way the arches diminish in size and increase in numbers from the first course to the third.

Funny thing as we approached the causeway to cross from the left bank to the right bank, a large man (whose friendliness reminded me of my brother Richard) spoke to us in English.  He was funny and bantering and spoke English very well.  And he is Belgian, from Namur.  We was with another man (brothers?) and two women, one of whom was filming us, and a small boy about the age of my grandsons (who are just five this autumn).  The youngster didn't want to be photographed, but I got the two guys to oblige with good humor.

The right bank has a quite nice restaurant beneath the plane trees (unless you order pizza with capers as my son did two years ago).  But we were too hungry for waiter-service.  We bought premade sandwiches and cold sodas, enjoyed our lunch beneath other plane trees.  I would like to make it known that it was here that I would deposit my 12-year-old, cracked, and no-longer-waterproof boots into the nearest "poubelle".

Boots that had served me well in many places on the towpath, the AT, and various trails in Scotland ended their useful life in a French trash can.

Pat wasn'd interested in getting her feet wet in the Gardon River, so she went off to see the view from on high while Barb and I went wading in the river. It's really easier to wade wearing Teva sandals, which I did. And wished at the same time that I could have donned by swimsuit and totally immersed myself.

As it was, I walked around close to shore, not eager to hike in wet hiking pants.  Lots of people were there, swimming, wading, kayaking, and watering their doggies.

We knew that we were well away from the route of  Enlightened Traveller's notes, and decided to visit the Visitor Information Desk to seek help in regaining our route.  No luck there, but we did run into two other C & O Canallers, Bill and Chris.  We planned to meet that night for dinner in Nimes as our hotels are not far apart..

Meanwhile we had to finish the hike.  Pat has some very good hiking instincts; I shall remember always to trust those.  She found a way back to either the GR without undue climbing; the ground was fairly level.  To my disbelief and amazement, we followed remnants of the ancient aqueduct for several kilometers.

What an unexpected thrill for me. I know, who cares about a bunch of old stone arches.  But the thought that they are still there, haven't been "recycled" into farmhouses or barns was striking.

Eventually after crossing a highway and back into the trees, we reached the town called "Vers Pont du Gard", where we were to meet the taxi at 17:15 hours.  Coming out of the woods, just about the first thing we passed was the medieval Lavoir, where women had washed clothing for centuries. Thierry was to meet us at a bar in the place d'Horloge, and he was right on time.  We drove back to Collias to pick up our luggage, then the long ride to Nimes and the Acanthe Hotel.  Hotel in a central location,inexpensive, very clean but slightly worn; but the manager - Eric - made up for it.  Plus there was time for a shower and short nap.

Bill and Chris were there at 19:45 sharp, and race-walked us to a nice place cross from their hotel.  The hostess was a large older woman with very little English but a great attitude and we had a decent 3-course, fixed-price meal.  Not one to linger over a meal when one is bone tired, we hurried back to the hotel for a fitful night.  This was the end of a hiking trip that I'd planned for months, and that I had hoped beyond hope would be a good one.  I thought it was grand, and I hope that my friends agree.

Leaving . . .

No photographs this time.  Preparing to go to France for 20 days.  And the departure date is here, this afternoon.  A hiking trip of a few days from Uzes to Nimes (including Pont du Gard), then to Sete on the Mediterranean Sea so we can submerge ourselves in that ancient and mysterious and powerful sea. Someone told me yesterday that it's saltier than the ocean we know because of evaporation.  We'll find out.

I've made list and more lists, and yet another list.  In previous years, when I was gainfully employed, I had less time on my hands and so I was much more decisive about what I was going to do, what I was going to pack, and so on and on.  Obsessive is what I've become.  My list of clothing was completely organized in my head; I wrote it all down, gathered it all in one place, packed and repacked the suitcase.  And decided that this was too much.

But I was trying to balance the potential lack of laundry facilities against wearing soiled clothing.  I think the soiled clothing has won.  There's only a four day stretch in one hotel  in Toulouse, and that's during the conference itself - in the middle of my 20 days.  Funny thing about the World Canals Conferences - there are presentations in the morning and then tours in the afternoon, sometimes into the evening.  I believe there might be ONE evening that we are on our own.  That doesn't leave much room for searching out a laundromat (what is the French word for such?  Do they have such?). But I could bring my stretchy clothes line and hope that the maid who cleans the room won't knock any down anything drying there.

Plus there are gadgets that need recharging, which means adapters and converters (space eaters).  And with aging come additional medications (fortunately sorted into little daily compartments) and toiletries, and pretties for dressing up for the "banquet" (vanity, vanity).

One thing I absolutely must do is to find La Poste and mail my hiking clothing back home.  That will make hauling the suitcase easier, and give me a bit of room if there's a souvenir I want to purchase.

My hiking boots are about 12 years old and at the end of their useful life.  The goretex lining has lost its waterproofness. The right-foot boot has a crack in the leather that admits water.  So I shall leave them in some trash container or on the train or something.  (To save space today I'm wearing them rather than packing them.)  So not I just watch the hands on the non-digital clock circle round until Joe and I decide it's time to go.

I will not have electronics on this trip - - no smart phone, no tablet or laptop computer (not that I have one I could bring anyway).  So no more posting until much much later, and then with a lot of photographs (we hope)