Resting in Saint Bertrand

I awoke from some really wild camping outside of Montserrie and gave thanks for passing a safe night. Cold, damp, full of spooky sounds, and so disagreeable that I decided to go to sleep without dinner… but safe.

As I packed up my tent in the cold morning, two pilgrims walked by, one French and one Spanish. We all chatted in Spanish for a few minutes, trading recommendations on pilgrim lodging, advising about difficult trails, agreeing that everything we carried is wet in this weather.

One of the pilgrims drifted farther off in the field to telephone ahead advising the monastery at St. Bertrand des Commingues that I would arrive today. I knew they were angels: without this call, I might not have been granted entry to the pilgrim lodging. And I would need plenty of hope and faith in my destination today.

The travel was only 20km, but it had some extremely challenging parts. My tent was very wet when I packed it up, making it much heavier. My mind was heavy too. Any strenuous bit of trail sent me reeling.

Towards the end, I went over a small hill, about 5km. I would have been certain this was not my trail, this was not anyone’s trail, except my maps app said that it was certain, and there were just enough faded markers on trees to guarantee that all this struggle was indeed dedicated to me. It was very hard.

On a terrifically sharp muddy ascent, I slipped and fell to my knees… but didn’t roll down or get injured, so it wasn’t so bad (I’m trying to stay optimistic, my friends). In the middle was a fairytale glade, ancient trees and crocuses and mushrooms, it was very easy to lose the trail: everything was too enchanted. Coming down the other side, thorns grabbed me like they meant to hold me here. It was quite a trek, and I was barely prepared to face these struggles, wet and cold and exhausted as I was.

And so as I exited the forest at last, the first sight of the 11th Century cathedral in St Bertrand almost brought me to my knees again.

I arrived as the presbytery and the priest kept asking me things in fast regional French, I couldn’t understand a single thing. A small woman came from the other door and calmed him, she explained that I was expected and that I was from America. Her name is Maïté, and she is from Japan. She received the call from my angels this morning and had drawn a sign welcoming me, it stood ready at my room in this medieval house.

I set my tent to dry in the garden, took the most aching and glorious shower of my life, and then walked the medieval town looking for wifi (none yet). Over dinner Maïté told me her life story, full of terrible pain and great faith.

In the morning, I confirmed with Maïté that I needed a day of rest. My feet don’t have blisters but there is some kind of terrible rash I am sure is related to excess dampness without relief. Problems with the feet are some of the most serious problems a pilgrim can have. I need healing.

But my day of rest comes not without a little bit of work: After I begged to be useful, Maïté assigned me to mow the lawn in the garden. She washed my clothes in the priest’s machine (I was ready to scrub with my hands, literally everything I have was dirty) and I hung it all to dry in my newly-preened garden.

Maïté and I spent breakfast talking about faith, about alchemy and dark magic, about how trauma is stored in our bodies and how it is purified with pilgrimage, about ego and “church people.” We speak a silly mix of English and French, with Japanese phrases, and we giggle a lot. She said how nice it was to talk with someone who understands. We are both women who have lived strange lives, traveling between cultures. This pilgrim house is closing for the season tomorrow, and she said I will be the last pilgrim here this year.

I spent my day of rest visiting the cathedral, whose main structure was an 11th Century Roman temple. I ate in the plaza, I wandered the medieval streets. As far as I can figure, my room at the presbytery is from the 16th Century. The electricity and plumbing seem like miracles, out of place in this echo-y building full of religious relics and books. My room overlooks the valley full of first-century Roman ruins.

I found wifi at the entrance to the cathedral, and if I crouch in the courtyard I can post these little blogs. It will be 4 days most likely until I get wifi or a market again. There is no market here, so I plan to see if I can negotiate a bit of bread and cheese for my pack from a local cafe. If I’m unsuccessful, it will be 3 days of trail mix and nutrition bars for me. Not appetizing, but no one will die of hunger on my Camino. What I’m trying to say is: don’t worry.

I will continue my pilgrimage. I do want to make it to Carcassonne. The next 4-day sprint to Saint-Lizier will be difficult, and after that it will be very easy I think. I don’t want to sleep outside any more, but I will if absolutely necessary, and it may be necessary. The weather continues to be ideal and in fact will only be nicer in the days to come.

Rest, sun, fresh clothes: these are my blessings today. Tomorrow: more Camino.