TransCatalunya: Day 2

Events, dear reader, the nasty little bastards creep up on you. And even though you know they're lurking, when they tap on your shoulder you still turn round, startled, thus offering them an undefended punch on your noe.

It happened to me. It happened to 48% of the UK electorate. I stood there, stunned, for a minute but by the time I'd come to my senses the culprit had already scarpered was on its way to spread its poisonous, xenophobic elsewhere. I'm still hot on its heels and if I ever get my hands on it I swear to God I'll batter it to bits.

Fortunately, I was in Girona when it happened, inured from the inanity of the situation by hot sun, cold beer and tapas. And the lilting, calming tones of the Catalan language. It was only when I jumped on the train and headed north, up into France to Paris and then London, that the cracks began to show. Even more fortunately, my sojourn in the UK was a brief one, just enough time to do battle with the University of Exeter's ethics approval submission process. That's done, now I'm kicking at my heels, waiting to get back on the trail. Only a week to go.

I arrived in Girona after a week's walking from Prades. Well, the intention was to walk the whole way, via the GR83, GR1, GR2 and Ruta de Carillet but circumstances that had nothing to do with the events of June 23rd put paid to that. Here's why:

THURSDAY 16 JUNE

The mill lode

The GR83 climbs out of Prades on a gentle gradient then contours the wooded slopes by following a mill lode. I'm barely out of my traps and already the enchantment's set in, I hadn't anticipated a relatively gentle stroll nor the sudden appearance, through the trees of the abbey of Saint-Michel-de-Cuxa. It threw me, knocked me of my stride and I dawdled - like Alison Moyet, I went weak in the prescence of beauty. 

GR83 from Prades to Taurinya, via St-Michel-de-Cuxa

The climb didn't begin in earnest until I'd passed the village of Taurinya, at about 600m.  In terms of horizontal distance, my destination - the Cortalets Chalet high up on Canigou - was less than 10km away but vertically I had my work cut out; another 1400m of ascent and clouds were gathering. 

GR83: Taurinya to Chalet de Cortalets

The GR83 twists and turns, a good path but Dios mio, doesn't it just go on and on and on. I'd purchased, at considerable expense, a 1:25000 IGN map of the Canigou massif. In many ways it's a work of art but for one used to the simplicity of following the ubiqituous yellow arrow, there's just too much detail and although I never got lost I was never quite sure exactly where I was. 
 

The highly-detailed IGN 1:25000 map. Infuriatingly, I reckon I got as far as 1500m, just 500m short of Cortlates. Still, je ne regrette rien

It was a lonely climb, until I came across a large group of teenage schoolchildren coming in the opposite direction. Now, I'm the kind of person who likes to see plenty of people out in the field, especially if they're kids; it's an essential tenet of ramblanismo. I stood to one side as they processed down passed me and do you know what? Almost each and every one of them, students and teachers, wished me a hearty bonjour. I replied to them all, with a widening smile; the acscent was becoming tedious, they cheered me up no end. 
And for some reason, it lead me to beleive that I wasn't far from a car park where I'd come across the bus which had surely dumped the kids off a few minutes earlier. From there a rough track would surely lead me, safely and securely, up to Cortalets where I'd booked a bed for the night.  

Canigou massif from Taurinya

Turns out the kids, looking remarkably fresh-faced, must have hiked down all the way from Cortlatets, still a good 900m above; the path continued to wind upwards, past abandoned shepherd huts and into pine forest. 

Saint-Michel-de-Cuxa

It was the first rumbles of thunder which sowed the seeds of doubt in my mind. Several times I paused to consult the map but on each occasion I decided to carry on; I had, after all, passed the point-of-no-return, theoretically at least, my destination was closer than my origin.

So near and yet so far

Discretion is the better part of valour. How much was aphorism reverberating around my increasingly concerned mind? The thunder rolled on, now accompanied by lumpen spots of rain; I looked up at Canigou, the summit was well out of sight but I'd worked out that to get to Cortalets the path would traverse an exposed ridge.  

Taurinya

Let's get one thing straight, I'm not a novice. I've been up on the mountain in a thunderstorm before and I'd spent the Christmas holidays hiking up to 4000m in the Mexican and Central American volcanic belt. But here, alone on the hill, I didn't feel adequately prepared, mentally or in terms of equipment. Ultimately, the decision to turn round and descend was an easy one; in fact, it more or less made itself. 

Abandoned shepherds' huts

And it was, as it turns out, the right one. The following morning I caught a glimpse of Canigou from Prades, overnight the upper slopes had received a good coating of snow. It was almost midsummer, I hadn't bargained for that. The rain came on hard and I picked up the pace, soon it became a race between the well-being of my right knee and the desire to get back down to the valley. The latter won and by the timeI got back to Prades the knee was giving me sufficient grief to worry about my ability to continue with the hike. 

The gathering storm

Later that evening, over a cold beer and take-away pizza, I mulled over the options. Though climbing Camigou was now out of the question, all was not lost; a bus up to Vernet-les-Bains would allow me to pick up a good track to the Mariailles refuge where I'd booked a bed for the following night. From there the GR83 would take me over the Pyrennees and down into Prats-de-Mollo. Despite a dodgy weather forecast, it all seemed relatively straightforward but deep-down inside I wasn't convinced.

Let's get theological

PRADES - EGLISE SANT PERE 
Wednesday 15th June

I spent a good 45 minutes in the church. In part, because I'd arrived too early to check in to my hotel room but mostly because the place absolutely captivated me, set my emotions on a precipitous edge. For a start, just the feel of the place: it's stunning altarpiece and ornate side chapels. 

 Then, due to the presence of a host of Virgin Marys (is there a collective noun for this?). I counted six: Our Lady of Salette, Our Lady of Mount Carmel, Our Lady of Victories, Our Lady of the Immaculate Conception, Our Lady of Montserrat and Our Lady of Guinea.

Four were too pale, too Anglo-Saxon and/or too straight but Our Lady of Guinea and, of course, my patrona for this trip, Our Lady of Montserrat are, in their own way, quite queer.  

Finally, being in this beautiful church made me think about the queerness of my own theology and Catholicism. The French Catholic Church, though much reduced in number, is still a powerful institution, deeply reactionary and conservative. The church of St Pere undermined that paradox; I was overcome by the sheer beauty, an affect which, one could argue, opens up a conduit to the Virgin Mary and/or God.

You pays yer money and you makes yer choice.

When I was a teenager and found mass desperately dull and boring, I used to while away the time imagining the church as a concert venue: perhaps this was the origins of my rock 'n' roll theology. The choir makes a perfect stage: the vocalist - centre stage at the altar, obviously, the priest; the lead guitarist, the deacon, to her/his right hand; the second guitarist and bassist, the altar servers, to the left. And at the back, the drummer. To be honest, I'm not sure where the drummer fits in ecclesiastically but there you go. Before the altar, in the pews and the nave would sit (and stand and kneel) the worshippers, hanging on every word and chord. 

With its backlighting and illumination, the church of Sant Pere would have made a rocktastic setting for a couple of hours of nineteen-eighties, big-haired, bubblegum pop-metal. But here the queerness of my Catholicism reached its limit. I couldn't countenance the fantasy becoming reality; would have considered it sacrilegious, even conjuring up the image in my head made me feel uncomfortable.

It's a weird one, full of paradox and inconsistencies but such is life. I can't help thinking my visit to the church of Sant Pere was pre-ordained. The perfect place to start the Summer of Sweat.

Santiago/Sant Jaume/ San Jacques in the church of Sant Pere, Prades. This man follows me everywhere and I don't even like him!

 

TransCatalunya Day 1

Paris in the spring; Paris in midsummer; Paris in the rain, the swollen Seine.

Paris in between stations on a grey Wednesday morning, only a week from the solstice. A murky dawn thick with diffused light, the clock tower of Gare de Lyon a beacon amidst the hubris. I come homing in - the lady's on the road again, wearing different clothes again ... actually, they're not. Same old jumper, leggings and boots: the ubiquitous garb of the itinerant. 

The TGV lumbers out of the station, an athlete reluctant to get into its stride. South of the city the landscape opens up and it feels grim up north. Blue-grey scudding clouds, endless fields reaching out to a flat horizon, and everywhere standing water.

On journeys such as these it's my wont to watch from the window at the flashing-by countryside and imagine myself moving in it, through it and across it, with all the zeal of a middle-aged nun hurrying to Sunday mass. I think of my spiritual landscapes: these flatlands, like the Spanish Meseta to which I'll return in six weeks time, are purgatorial landscapes. Every step you take puts another metre between oneself and the devil; draws you closer to the edge of heaven.

The TGV slips into its stride and picks up the pace, slicing through the showers and silver curtains of rain. It is a train with single-minded trajectory, hemmed in, ploughing its own, purpose-built furrow. It broaches no obstruction: nothing stands in its way. No level-crossings, no lumbering freight trains, no overgrown sidings where time sits idly, all dressed up and no place to go.

Sister Sian, the apostle of slow travel, hurtles across central France at over 200kmh, not quite the speed of sound but fast enough to put the weather behind her. The land begins to unfurl itself, as if God had taken hold of her tectonic fireside rug and given it a gentle shake. Shallow, wooded folds and a smattering of settlement now. 

Looking out of the window of a passing train is an acquired taste. For most, watching the grass grow would be more captivating but do you know what? I am the sort of person who could sit in a sun-drenched field and watch nature creep up and over me: day after day, month after month, year after year. Into eternity. I am the land, the land is me: together, we are God.

Summer 2016. The colours of France are all wrong: grey and green and splattered with mud. It's only close to Nimes that nature begins to get her act togther, with the cypress trees and Mediterranean scrub, olive groves, craggy scarps and lavender. Journeying south in the TGV is a bit like travelling in a time machine, speeding up the seasons such that the sodden barley of the Ile de France is ripe for reaping in Languedoc Roussillon. Beyond Nimes the fast tracks are still under construction and the train slows into steady trot through the hinterlands of the Mediterranean coast. It feels good to take it easy. Up at five to catch the TGV at six, the mad dash from Paris has taken its toll. By the Canal du Midi I sat back and slept.

2016: The Summer of Sweat/El Verano de Sudor

It was fellow blogger and landscapist, Eddie Procter who pointed out the inverse relationship between studying the landscape and actually getting out, into and across it. Books, dear reader. So many of the effing things they seem to breed overnight, and copulate with the myriad of papers, articles and theses on pilgrimage and the Camino de Santiago.

Enough already! Just another six weeks of teaching the sons and daughters of the Wessex Bourgeousie how to pass exams - as opposed to actually 'educating' them, now there's a radical concept - then it's the train to Spain for a long summer of ambulatory onanism on and off the Camino, doing - and not doing - fieldwork for my PhD.

Not doing? Who am I kidding. Fieldwork is permanent and never-ending; I've been at it since I popped out - feet first - from my mother's womb and I shall not cease till I've uttered my last words. Which will be geography-related, natch. Sex, love and death? Sex, lust and geography more like.

EPISODE THE FIRST: TRANSCATALUNYA

It's a summer of three halves. First up, a TransCatalunyan north-south hike over the eastern Pyrenees along the GR83, from Prades to Olot in the Alta Garrotxa before turning eastwards to follow the old railway line - now a via verde, La Ruta del Carrilet - to Girona. The highlight of this trek, I hope, will be the ascent of the sacred Catalunyan mountain, Pic du Canigou. I've had my eye on this shapely protuberance since a family holiday back in the mid-1980s when, as my mother never ceases to remind me, I negotiated the family car and folding caravan around the Parisian equivalent of the North and South Circular whilst parents and siblings were safely snoozing in the back: seems like I slept for the following 48 hours. 

During that holiday which, by dint of having taken place in the 1980s, must obviously have been idyllic, my father and I set out to climb Canigou. We were hopelessly under-prepared and fortunately the heat got the better of us long before we could get close enough to the mountain to put ourselves in potential danger. Fifteen years later I spent a hiking holiday in the French Pyrenees many years later but a crocked knee prevented an ascent: in more recent years I've taken to travelling to Spain by train and whenever I take the eastern route Canigou looms on the horizon, taunting and tempting - unless I'm misreading the signals and it's giving me the finger. The final straw came when I spent the Christmas of 2014 fart-arsing around in the Pyrenean foothills, on every hike Canigou watched and followed me like the eyes of Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrow that hung over my childhood bed. 

The GR83 Camino del Canigou (http://senderismo.gronze.com/camino-del-norte-o-del-canigo). It's tempting to follow it all the way to Mataro but I have business to attend to in Girona - like looking for a place to live next year.

It seems appropriate that in this summer of pilgrimage I preface it with a personal perambulation. My mother and father introduced me to hiking from a very young age, climbing the dazzling limestone of Derbyshire's White Peak; following treatment for prostrate cancer and a stroke, my dad, though still sound of mind, is increasingly immobile so I shall climb Canigou in a thoughtful, unhurried manner and the remember the hills we did - and didn't climb.

You know what they say: pray for the dead, but walk like hell for the living.

La Ruta Carillet (http://www.viasverdes.com/itinerarios/itinerario.asp?id=52)

EPISODE THE SECOND: SAINTS AND CYNICS

When I first came up close and personal with the Camino de Santiago, in 2012, it was along that pedestrian motorway that is the Camino Frances; it was a mixed experience, much of it spent in glowering anti-pilgrim mode and I swore I'd never hike it again. Talk about famous last words, in mid-July I'll be plodding along it once again, not just to Santiago but all the way to Finisterra, the end of the world.

Once again, working out where to begin's been harder than actually walking the effing thing. Indeed, this summer's perambulations have gone through as many permuations as a Rubik Cube and what started out as a TransEspana expedition has had to be reshaped for academic purposes. I shouldn't complain, I've still got a good seven-and-a-half weeks on the road and I've spent so long reading about the Camino I can't wait to set foot on it again: I'm already dreaming of the ubiquitous yellow arrow.

Or maybe hallucinating's a better description. 

Via Podiensis: Arthez-de-Bearn to St-Palais

Via Podiensis: St-Palais to St-Jean-Pied-de-Port

I'm not quite sure why I finally opted to start the Camino on the final stages of the Via Podiensis from Arthez-de-Bearn in the French Pyrenees-Atlantiques rather than the traditional departure point of St-Jean-Pied-de-Port at the foot of the mountains; St Jean is, after all, only four days down the road, what's one hundred kilometres between old friends? Something about wanting to delay encountering the crowds or my inner anti-pilgrim making herself known already? I have to speak with my fellow peregrinos and peregrinas as part of my research; I do hope she's not going to embarrass me.

The Camino Frances: The Road to Perdition or Highway to Hell?

EPISODE THE THIRD: BACK IN BASQUE
Don't get me wrong, I do understand how fortunate I am to possess both an inner Catalan and an inner Basque but at times I feel like Mary MacGregor who, back in 1976 - the summer of dry heat and dust - found herself torn between two lovers, feeling like a fool. And I know full well that loving both of them is breaking all the rules.

But this is the Summer of Sweat and that's exactly what I'm gonna do. 



I've managed to convince my PhD supervisors - for they are indeed plural, a geographer and a theologian - that I'll be returning from my Camino sojourn weighed down with a rucksack full of data so heavy I'll need to take a break before I come back and crunch it. And do you know what? They bought it! 'No need to rush back, Sian', they said with a smile. Anyone would think they didn't want to see me again. 

I am, dear geographically-inclined reader, a victim of cruel and hapless circumstance. Not content with pissing about with my gender and sexuality, the gods and goddesses of fate have taken great pleasure with toying with my academic leanings. Knowing full well that I am, by nature, a woman with a lusty, physical disposition, they promptly plucked me from the comfort of my earth and dumped me in a discipline labelled 'cultural geography'. I still haven't got a clue what I'm doing but I've worked out that if I say the right words - i.e. Deleuze and Guattari - I get a knowing nod and everythings alright with the world.

Well, do you know what? This summer they can do one. I'll be zippin' up my boots, going back to my roots. Yeah. To the place of my birth, back down to earth. Anboto, Alluitz, Txindoki, Untzillatx, Udalatx; it's only been a year but I miss you so much. I'm coming back to your kaarst and sparkling limestone. I'm coming home.