Via Lemovicensis: Resolution, Fury, and the Poetry of God

The only other pilgrim at the chambres d’hôte I stayed last night was Laurent, who began from his home near Paris back in March. I first met him on the day I walked into Périgueux. He’s doing a long day today – at least 36 km – so I doubt I will see him again, unless we overlap at Saint-Jean, where we are both planning to take a rest day.

Today and tomorrow for me are short days. The past few days have been relatively long, and I need to balance things out a bit. My average daily distance since leaving from Vézelay is almost exactly 27 km. I usually like to have that number closer to 25.

I had planned to leave at about 7 AM, but I slightly overslept, only leaving at 7:25. Finding the Camino was relatively easy, since my room was right across the street from the church.

The way out of town included a narrow alley with what was probably a 20° slope up. This would have been far easier with stairs!

The morning was cool, but perhaps not so much as yesterday, and the skies were mostly clear. The forecast, of course, called for storms. Out of an abundance of caution, my poncho hung off my pack.

As I walked out of Mussidan, I couldn’t help but notice that the farther away from the town center I was, the nicer the neighborhoods and the better kept the houses were.

By 7:50, I left the last of the grand houses behind and turned onto a rough dirt forest road. Dordogne is now vying with the neighboring Lot départment (which I walked in 2023) for my favorite in France.

A year ago today, Francine said something that really stuck with me. “Writing spirit is fighting spirit.” The context was to encourage a friend of ours to persevere in their art, but those words have inspired me since.

I’ve been writing professionally for more than a quarter of a century, but the overwhelming majority of that work has been for hire. There was a time when I wrote poetry, essays, and my own fiction basically every day. 

Years ago, I badly burned out on that. I still wrote occasionally, mostly blogging, but my days of daily writing were on pause. Francine never failed to encourage me to get back to writing when I was ready. I like to think that this was one of her final encouragements. 

When she burned out on her own writing – and to be fair, it was the marketing and business side of it that burned her out, not the actual writing – it was my turn to encourage her. She never did return to serious writing, though we still constantly pitched ideas to each other. 

We were still pitching ideas when she was in the hospital, but by the time she entered hospice care those days, too, were over. 

The Camino briefly left the woods to roadwalk through the suburban hamlet of La Ferme de Cumy. I was already getting warm and so removed my fleece. It was only 8:10. 

A little while later, the forest road passed under a busy highway. There was the usual spray paint graffiti there, but one layer underneath were some caricatures by someone clearly inspired by Tintin.

As I walked through the forest, I hummed or sang some of the songs that Francine and I used to bop along to together. Of late, my CD player and record player have been silent – yes, I’m a physical media guy – but I resolved when I get home that there will be music again in Pistachio House.

Sometime past 8:30, I walked through the hamlet of Bellevue, which so far as I can tell are two rambling old stone houses with pretty gardens, accessible only by the forest road.

I was reminded as I walked of another thing that Francine said, repeatedly, during her illness. She said it to our children, she said it to select friends. “You make sure that husband of mine lives.” I have not really been living this past year. Existing, yes. Living? That I need to work on.

At about 8:45, the forest road suddenly became paved and started running along the A 89 highway: four lanes of speeding madness. Soon enough, the Camino passed underneath the highway through a short tunnel notable for a distinct lack of graffiti.

From there, I roadwalked to the hamlet of Les Jaunies, a small collection of large houses scattered up the side of a hill. Here, the Camino turned up a grassy dirt road and eventually back into the woods. Someday I will walk a day with dry shoes. Today is not that day.

The road eventually narrowed to a forest path, frequently blocked by mud or standing water. Sometimes it would widen back out and then narrow again. At one point, a little stream flowed across the path.

At about 8:40, the path brought me up out of the forest and into the village of Saint-Géry. 

The church here is a humble and immaculately kept little place. I was immediately moved to pray here. 

The usual plaster saints have clearly been repainted by hand. The furnishings are simple and appropriate. A perfect little village church.

The church bell struck ten as I was getting ready to leave the church. I had hoped for second breakfast here, but there was no place at all. Something of a disappointment, since there had been no open places in Mussidan this morning to pick anything up either.

So instead, I sat on the church steps and ate out of my rapidly depleting food stash.

I hadn’t even made it out of the village when dark clouds rolled in and the temperature dropped precipitously. I actually had to put my fleece back on before continuing.

I roadwalked through the charmingly medieval hamlet of Les Roches. Well, one of the houses was charmingly medieval at any rate. Then across a busy road through the blink-and-you’ll-miss-it hamlet of Guillou. 

By 10:30, I was back in the trees, still walking the asphalt road. The road took me through the by now usual mix of forest and meadow. 

Occasionally in the distance, sometimes just at the crest of the ridge off to my right, I could see houses or little hamlets. I even saw something that looked vaguely like it could have been a round defensive tower, but might have just once been a windmill.

In the distance I heard which sounded like an argument between a rooster and a cuckoo. It made me think of my home at Pistachio House, with my hens and my cuckoo clock.

At about 10:50, I came upon a roadside shrine. Our Lady of the Holy Rosary, with Calla lilies growing in front of it. I sat here on a nearby bench for a bit. More of God’s sweet poetry.

We of course had been for many years parishioners of Holy Rosary Church in Tacoma. And we had Calla lilies at our wedding.

Across the road from the shrine, a sign indicated that I only had 4.6 km to go on the day. I might be to my destination before lunch.

It was well after 11 AM before I was roadwalking again, now praying the rosary. Along the way I passed a couple of isolated little hamlets. The only one with signage was La Gratade.

As I was praying through the mystery of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin, the road was suddenly lined with Calla lilies, seemingly growing wild. I was so flabbergasted that I stopped in my tracks. I took a photo before continuing.

Of course it was the Assumption – for it was on the day of that feast, August 15, 2004, that Francine and I first walked into Saint Patrick Church together and began our Catholic journey.

The Lord is clearly trying to make a point here.

As I walked down the road, I noticed that the character of the forests are beginning to change. More and more, they are coniferous, and more and more they are clearly planted by humans in a way that they are placed precisely, sometimes with an almost mathematical precision.

Meanwhile, the sky was getting very dark indeed. I was beginning to feel the occasional drop of rain.

At about 11:50, it began to drizzle. I put my arms through the sleeves of my poncho. Within just a few minutes, the rain was falling in big fat drops.

Then the wind began, and the storm was upon me.

As I walked through the pouring rain, in the distance I heard a church bell tolling noon. Five minutes later, I saw the first buildings of the village of Fraisse, which was my destination for the day.

I arrived at about 12:10. My first stop was the church – it was locked. My second thought was someplace for lunch – there weren’t any. So I walked about 100 m back down the trail to a sheltered picnic area and eat lunch out of my food stash.

Finished the sausage. Finished the cheese. Definitely finished the cookies. My entire stash at this point consists of half a baguette and some last-ditch emergency granola bars.

Meanwhile, the rain never stopped. At some point after 1 PM I thought I might make my way to the gîte. So I plugged the address into my mapping app and discovered to my horror that it was nearly 4 km from the village.

I am not ashamed to say that I swore out loud.

This was not news that I enjoyed learning, nor was walking another 4 km something I particularly wanted to do in the moment. 

Tolkien quote of the day, when Frodo and Sam reach the end of the Dead Marshes: “For a while they stood there, like men on the edge of a sleep where nightmare lurks, holding it off, though they know that they can only come to morning through the shadows.”

I reluctantly put my pack and poncho back on. I had already compiled my tracking map for the day, so now there would have to be a second, supplementary one.

I was frustrated and angry with myself. As part of my daily prep before I leave, I normally drop a pin on the mapping app at the location of that night’s gîte. I have done this every day since Vézelay, except today.

Worst of all, it was back the way I came. I probably passed the turnoff  before the rains began. The instant I figured this out, I swore again.

But nothing speeds a walk like anger.

The rain stopped. The sun even broke through the clouds a bit. I just walked, fuming, my sticks cracking on the pavement like a machine, tik-tik-tik-tik.

I walked past where the storm had caught me. I walked back into La Gratade. I walked past sheep that I had noticed placidly grazing in a yard hours ago. They didn’t seem to have moved.

I walked past the Calla lilies growing wild by the roadside. Some of them had been knocked down in the storm.

The turnoff was only a few meters from them. Instead of turning shortly after the rosary shrine, I had just blindly walked forward following the signs instead of discerning where it was I was supposed to be going.

There’s a lesson there somewhere.

When I finally arrived, Luc, Louis-Marie, and Herve were already there. I felt slightly better after my shower.

I spent some time sending email to places I wanted to book over the next few days. I was impressed at how quickly some of them responded.

Herve and I had a lovely conversation, while outside it was sunny, if cold, for most of the afternoon. Until just before 7 PM, as we were getting ready for dinner, when the heavens opened up with rain and hail pelted down. It was really impressive to see, and I was very glad not to be walking in it.

Just as suddenly as it began, it stopped. The whole thing had lasted maybe twenty minutes.

Date: 05 May 2026

Place: La Gratade 

Today started: Mussidan 

Today’s Photos!