Walking in France from Le Puy en Velay

Last week I spent a couple days at the above retreat center, putting together some historical information about this sacred spot. The land is about 200 acres of mostly native timber, or at least a remnant of what this land was like before white settlers arrived. It’s west of the East Nishnabotna River and was a favorite spot for many Native Peoples to fish, hunt, and gather wood. The Pottawattamie were the last Native Americans to live here before they were forced to move to Kansas in the mid 1800’s.

In 1942, the Boy Scouts purchased about 200 acres to create in 1948 Camp Wakonda, which used Native American lore and symbols to teach boys respect for nature and life skills such as archery, riflery, swimming, camping, and good citizenship.

In 1978, Wakonda Prayer House opened as an ecumenical retreat center. So many volunteers gave time and talent and resources to help Father Laverne Wingert build cabins, a chapel, and a dining hall in the same woods where the Boy Scouts adventured.

And then in 1994, Creighton University acquired the spot for its current retreat center. I learned about this spot from a friend who was studying to become a spiritual director. She needed a ride, so I decided to just spend a few days too. I felt the peace of the woods and the river. I heard the birds and the cicadas. Human silence allowed for nature to be heard. I loved being there and felt called to volunteer there last summer as their gardener.

I also got asked to dig up some history and have been struck by the holiness of the place and the respect for the spirit of nature that has been there through so many eras. As I wrapped up my research last Thursday, I learned the name of the artists who created a mural behind me in Manresa, the central building where I had been working. It honors the way of life of the people who lived here before we did. That was the big lesson I’d learned, and it was literally all around me – on the wall behind me and in the woods outside the windows in front of me.

But I had to leave CURC to drive about 4 hours to Ottumwa where I got to help judge my first History Day Contest on Friday. As I drove east over gravel roads, I saw so many wind turbines on the wide-open rolling hills. (So different from CURC.)

Finally in Wapello County on Friday, at Indian Hills Community College, this reproduction of American Gothic reminded me that nearby in Eldon, Iowa is where the house still stands.

Feeling right at home with these folks, I finally drove into Van Buren County in SE Iowa and to the Veatch Retreat near Stockport on Friday night.

If I could learn as much about the land here at the farm as I did about the retreat center! We are here again and slowly gearing up for the brick house restoration project. But as we work on that, it is so nice to have family and friends enjoy being here. Thankful whenever we are here and even happier when others join us. Another very special place. A family place.

Well, that’s it for this week. Thankful for what I am learning and what is possible.

Tuesday morning my friend Michelle stopped by and asked if I wanted to go for a short bike ride with her in the neighborhood. I suggested we ride along the Beaver Creek bike path not far from our homes in Johnson. It was that gloriously warm morning, and I was wearing shorts along with a sweatshirt, as I sat outside with my laptop and coffee. When we were heading north along the path leading from 62nd, about half way to the bike path’s end, a man was stopped on the left, and as I slowed down he said, ” Did you see the bald eagle?” and he gestured up. I hadn’t, but looking up, I could see why he was stopped. I quietly and quickly got Michelle’s attention and whispered: “Stop.” Directly above us was this fine, single eagle. We stood in awe for about 5 minutes, and then, after I quietly asked Beautiful Eagle if he wanted to fly for us, he did! He glided to the northeast, over the Beaver Creek and toward Camp Dodge, allowing us to see the full extension of his wings and his white tail. Warmth and wonder brought at least three of us together in awe on that sunny suburban bike path on February 27th. We had to hurry and push to pedal back to our homes and our responsibilities, but that moment stayed with us and lifted our spirits then and even now as I remember how we had escaped our overly-developed neighborhood thanks to an eagle on high.

And last week in Van Buren County, on February 22, a chance viewing of an old one-room school house, ready to be moved, also caused me to stop what I was doing and wonder. I was driving east out of Birmingham on a gravel road when on my way to the farm northeast of Stockport. I had to stop, turn around, and drive back to the corner to get this photo. I told myself: “Do not drive on by, because it will not be here next time.” Where will it go? What will it become? Was it really the Winchester School as Greg’s father suggested when we talked about it later? (He grew up in Van Buren County, but I still don’t trust everything he tells me.) Will I be able to find out anything more about what’s going on with this building? I’ll drive by again tomorrow, and I’ll give it a try. We’ll see. I still haven’t named our backyard squirrel, but I did see one very high in one of our trees the other day, and I wondered if that squirrel was the same one who eats my apple peels in the mornings. These two seemingly random photos are connected by two unusually warm and sunny February days and by how arresting they were. Not going very deep, but I am working on noticing. It’s a start. As far as any more information about my upcoming walk in France, all I have is that I’ve been walking a little each day. Again, it’s a start, and I think sometimes that’s all we can do: just get started on dreams and keep noticing the beauty in front of us right here where we are. Or, as Robert Louis Stevenson wrote: “The world is so full of a number of things, I’m sure we should all be as happy as kings” – just one of his gems collected in A Child’s Garden of Verses. I have purchased this very edition and am working on reading all of it. Left the book with the grandchildren as I hope to read many of the poems to them!

Happy Valentine’s Day, February Snow & Dreams of the Stevenson Trail

Dear Friends,

So many folks whom I admire create or write. Not being particularly creative, I still need to write. It helps me be satisfied for having worked at expressing something. Writing in my journal is good, but having even one other person get something from my words, is better. Since 2021, I’ve tried to spend more time reading so I could have the “cred” to write something worthwhile, but I know in my heart that writers are simply people who write. And there is never an end to reading more to be more informed. I’ve been wrong in thinking that my life in Iowa isn’t as interesting as my life in France. Everyone’s life is interesting, if examined and reflected on well.

But today’s title reveals my promptings. In the winter (without a plan to escape the cold and snow by going south), I have to do a lot to keep my spirits up. I walk, swim, make lists of things to do, write letters, watch movies, read some more, sign up for yoga classes, join fitness clubs, volunteer, and over fill my calendar to give me reasons to get up and get going. But the thing that really helps me escape and have hope is making plans for my next walk in France.

The Stevenson Trail in southeastern France is my next dream. As I pick up my blog today, I plan tell you a bit about my life here in Iowa and also let you know something from my research for my next (God willing) walk in France.

Robert Louis Stevenson (not yet a famous writer) walked this path in September of 1878 to distract himself after his love Fanny returned to America. He also was interested in the Camisards (aka Huguenots), a group of French Protestants in the area and their persistent and armed struggle for religious freedom in the early 1700’s. He wrote a small book called Travels with a Donkey in the Cevennes, which recounts his journey. It’s only 85 pages long, but worth reading because of his struggles with his donkey Modestine and his description of the locals and the Protestants who lived there. I’m looking forward to walking where he walked and learning about Protestants in France. Most of France’s religious history is Catholic, so this will be different and closer to my faith tradition. Below is the French guide to this trail which I read before sleeping to feed my dreams. Miam Miam Dodo is a fun title for where to eat and sleep while on these paths.

As far as my days here? Along with reading Stevenson, I peel an apple each morning and put the peels out on the back terrace. Each morning fat, brown, bushy-tailed Mr. Squirrel comes and enjoys my offerings. I eat the apple with my oats and he eats the peels while peering in at us at the dining room table. My guys tell me I need to name him, and I’m thinking on that. One day he had another squirrel with him, perhaps Mrs. Squirrel, but that was the exception. Or could it be Mrs. Squirrel who comes each morning? Till next time!

Okay, I like to walk. But I also wanted to avoid the metro and busses because bedbugs have been sited there. So walking from the 12th arrondissement to the Château de Vincennes seemed like a great way to spend a beautiful October Saturday. And I read about La Promenade Plantée, a former rail line now a lovely walking path, that would lead walkers “to the country.” Here’s a picture of the map of the walk that I should have taken yesterday morning before I left the hostel.

I left about 9 am and had my hiking boots and water and snacks. I even found the green way fairly easily and headed in the right direction away from Paris.

I crossed the bridge to the left and never found the rest of the green way. I ended up past the Périphérique (the ring road around Paris) in the town of Charenton.

So I sat down in the shade and enjoyed American tunes with an amazing vocalist and lots of brass. Many families with children were there for the music and the little children’s fair rides. Talked with a gentleman who told me to watch a French TV show with world traveler Antoine. Title: J’irai dormir chez vous or I am going to sleep at your place. Have you heard of it? Not me. I’ll check it out soon. But as you can see, I got distracted from my goals, but I loved it all! I asked which direction for the Château de Vincennes, and was pointed back toward Paris, giving me the idea that I had gone too far or at least gotten of track. Oh well, it was still before noon.

I asked a young mom pushing a stroller how I could reach the castle. She suggested I take a metro. But I wanted to walk. She looked skeptical and said I could get there through the woods. So off I went!

I tried to enter from this side of course. But was directed to the left and had to walk all the way around this HUGE walled medieval forteresse. The official entrance was to the right! (Much closer) It was after 1:00 pm when I figured all this out. I decided I needed to rest and have some lunch before attempting to tour the Castle grounds.

I later learned that Bois de Vincennes is the largest public park in the greater Parisian area. About 2,500 acres. 50 miles of crisscrossing walking paths and paved lanes. So, I actually did pretty well, all things considered. These woods were mentioned by the Romans, who referred to them as Vilcena. The word Vincennes comes from that. Later, various French kings hunted in these woods.

Some folks say it’s not the destination but the journey that matters most. I think that works pretty well for my Saturday and my destination of the Castle of Vincennes. For pilgrims walking all the way to Santiago, it’s not Santiago, but everything that happens along the way. For us, it’s not heaven (or hell) after this life, but rather the moments of beauty, love, joy or pain that we experience each day.

Although the Castle of Vincennes was not used as a royal residence much after Charles V, it did serve the monarchy and France in many different ways. It was a prison among other thing & is today not only a historical monument but a repository of some of the archives of the French Military. I’m not exactly where they all of them are located.

My day included 13 miles of walking, several folks helping me find my way, one man giving me a bus ticket (when I was trying to buy one from the bus driver) after I finally accepted that I needed public transportation ( short ride) to get home before dark. It was a good day. I got back to The People Bercy hostel about 7:00 pm.

Navarre was once an independent kingdom between France & Spain. So their king Henri d’Albret decided they should build some strong walls to defend themselves. In 1569 the Protestants (Huguenots) of this town held off the attacking French Catholic forces! They stayed indépendant for about 50 years, but the next time they were threatened, the new leader said it wasn’t worth fighting for anymore. The town became French and Catholic but no lives were lost in the transition.

Wars of Religion destroyed lots of buildings and killed so many persons in this part of France and others. The Church of Saint Germain in Navarrenx not only changed from Catholic to Protestant and back to Catholic again, it also practiced discrimination against a group of people called the Cagots. I’m not sure what made these folks so objectionable, but they were treated like lepers.

These persons couldn’t enter through the front door of thus church. There was a smaller door for them on the left side. They had to sit in the back of the church. They had a separate baptismal font. The priest offered them the communion host the end of a long stick. Very few occupations were open to these people. Only after the French Revolution (1789) did these discriminatory practices stop.

This reminds me of our country and some of our past and present discriminatory practices.

What else is there to say? The church has gone wrong so many times in so many ways. Does the good it does outweigh the bad? Another question to ponder as I head out for a 24-kilometer (about 15-mile) walk.

I’m getting close now. I’ll stop walking in Roncevaux this year. Merci et Bon Chemin.

My two nights in Aire sur l’Adour (Rest on the Adour River) have been relaxing and instructive. Breakfast at 8 instead of 7 was nice. Leisurely grocery shopping for tomorrow’s picnic and essentials – like more bandaids for my blisters – was lovely. But three times lately I’ve been reminded how the French conservation ethic is embedded in their daily routines. They waste not, while many Americans, myself included, waste resources without giving it a thought.

No bags are offered at grocery stores. It is expected that you will bring in your own. After buying 18E worth of items, I was a bit surprised, but I was cool and just used my backpack.

And at the motel yesterday, I couldn’t get the air conditioning to turn on. Oh well, I just opened the sliding window a bit more, and made do. It was cool overnight, so no problem.

But it was getting really hot this afternoon, so after walking back from the grocery store, I asked at the reception if there were tricks I needed to know to get the AC to work. The young lady said, “Shut the windows.” Yes, of course, I thought. I’m no dummy. But she continued, “Only if the windows are completely shut will the air turn on.” She acted like she had told foreign guests this a few times before. Sure enough, once I slid my window over completely, I simply pushed the AC button on, and voilà! 👍 Yesterday when I tried, I had it cracked just a bit so I could air dry my smelly wool socks on the sunny ledge.

And the day before yesterday, when we discovered a place to buy some food to eat later as a picnic lunch sur le Chemin, a salad was listed in the menu. I ordered one but the lady said, “Ah, non! That must be eaten here.” What? No plastic containers like I get too often at Hy- Vee? The homemade ham & cheese quiche was wrapped in some sort of paper and I put that in my back pack. And now I recall that I couldn’t buy a juice in a glass container either. So I decided to just drink water from my refillable bottle.

These lessons shouldn’t have surprised me. I learned about not wasting anything when I stayed with my French host family in Toulouse in the fall of 1978. But how easy it is to fall into wasteful habits, especially if one’s culture promotes that. I know I have friends at home with great conservation ethics. I’m feeling like an Ugly American right now. (But at least I’ve made efforts to learn their language.) Traveling always humbles us and teaches us about others – and ourselves.

Today I walked a little over 13 miles to La Romieu, where pilgrims have journeyed for centuries. Beautiful fields of bright yellow sunflowers today and a few forests to pass through. Lots of hunting preserves posted. I tried to make fewer stops and I wasted no time off the path. Had a few nice talks with fellow pilgrims. A 26-year-old man from Montpellier and two older gentlemen from La Rochelle. One of them had walked all the way ftom Le Puy en Velay to Santiago twice. Now he is ill and walking very slowly. His friend explained all this to me as we walked ahead for a while. (My pace seemed to impress him and a few others; I explained I need to walk fast when I can: mornings and on the flat.) He said their wives would meet them at Romieu later with the car. That’s all they can do these days: short stretches. He wished me well and went back to walk with his friend.

Being alone most of today wasn’t hard, mostly because I had decided to stop at 13 miles rather than doing another 21-mile day. That helped me enjoy every view and push myself up every hill – with the help of my walking poles. But being goal oriented isn’t really bring a pilgrim. We are to be open to whatever we encounter on the way. We are to feel Christ’s presence with us in our hardships and in our meetings with others. It was a good day for many reasons, but knowing when to stop was my lesson. I knew it was right for me and I did it! And I enjoyed my day more.

A pilgrimage symbolizes life, to quote from my Pilgrim’s guide, written by Saint Jean-Paul II, pope and pilgrim. We confront the challenges of the path, and first of all, our fragility. But we persevere. Jesus is our way, because he is in every aspect of our journey, if we are open to Him. I’m waxing faith-filled again, but that can happen here. My walk today was beautiful and more inspiring than the majestic Collégiale, that dominated Le Romieu. I just realized it is Sunday. And even though I didn’t worship formally anywhere, I did worship.

Well, day 1 was ideal. Walking beside a lovely canal with trees shading the flat path. Lots of bikes peddling by and everyone in fine spirits, including me. Twelve miles from Moissac to Auvillar was like a fairy tale walk.

Day 2 was different.

I knew it would be a long day, but I kept making stops when maybe I shouldn’t have. I saw a woman ahead of me head into a corn field to relieve herself. That’s not cool. I walked a half mile off the path and found the most lovely, quiet village with nice public toilets and a beautiful church. I always want to move to these quiet, peaceful villages along the Chemin. There was a school and even one home for sale for me: maison à vendre.

An hour later, I had to get my daily Orangina & fresh fruit at a cool village where everyone including new new friends were hanging out.

My next goal was Miradoux, but I ran out of water and needed to rest in the shade before climbing the hill to it. A nice lady offered me some of hers. Once I made it to Miradoux, I visited the church, lit a candle, and soon discovered there was nothing else open! No place to get food except a very warm & crowded cafe where many pilgrims were waiting patiently for a late lunch. They were all staying overnight there. But I had another half a day to cover. It was here I walked back & forth looking for water, toilets, food for more than an hour – and I even left my walking sticks at that busy cafe, where the only woman working had graciously sold me a water, an apricot juice, and an apple tart – to go – even before many of my friends had ordered! I explained that I was only half way and couldn’t sit down but needed food and drink to survive. Barbara, an American pilgrim I walked walked with earlier, gave me an energy bar too. Finally, I left that town!

After Miradoux, I never saw another walker. I made it to another deserted village, Castet-Arrouy, where I got another Orangina & changed socks while resting. I had 2 1/2 more hours to hike to get to Lectoure, I learned. Oh dear. More solitude as I walked through woods and farm fields. I kept hoping for another village with a bus stop. Nothing. Lost my way for a bit, and a man in a small white van helped me find the right path again. He pointed far in the distance to my destination: Lectoure. Is there a village before? No, but you go this way, away from the road, into the fields.

After quite a bit more walking and praying for help, a pretty young woman in a small red car stopped. She was heading to Lectoure to the bakery (La Boulangerie). Do you want a lift? Yes! I told her she was an angel. She told me I should watch France play rugby in the World Cup that evening. She dropped me off in the center of town. It was easy to find my historic hotel not far from there. I checked in about 7:20. They said they were worried about me, and they were so glad I made it. Me too.

It was a long, lonely, tough day for this modern pilgrim. But I realize how very fortunate I am. I’m resting today and will head out again tomorrow morning.

People think walking will be hard, but I say that getting to France is harder than walking the Chemin, any day. Here’s a quick look at what I had to do and a few of the little joys along the way.

Amtrak from Quincy, Illinois to Union Station, Chicago. Great trip, smooth, quiet, not crowded, even as students returning to school took most of the seats by the end of the trip. 6:12 am to 10:30. Thanks to Dikki Ann who hosted me and got me to the station on time!

Blue line train from the Clinton Station (just a few blocks walk south of Union Station) to OHare. Again, quiet, not too crowded. A young man with a curly man bun and a cello or bass in a case & two huge bags was heading to the Netherlands; he helped me get on the right train, even though it was leaving from the wrong side of the platform. He was right. About an hour ride.

Check in at the Air France counter, 4 hours early. No checked bags! Security was bearable. Waiting in my quiet corner, I met friendly Michelle from Milwaukee, who was heading to Scotland for a knitting & prayer retreat on some remote island. It sounded very low-key and beautiful.

Flight left at 5:10 pm and arrived in Paris about 8:15 Tuesday am. I got to sit next to two twenty-something sisters from Chicago going to a music festival in Germany. One had a grad degree in Fashion and Textiles & Museum Studies from Iowa State and is helping with the new Obama Museum being built in south Chicago. They both were dressed like Paris models and even changed into another, even more chic outfit for their 7-hour layover trip into Paris before flying out again.

Paris Charles DeGaulle Airport was NOT oppressively crowded for the first time in my life! New route to get to customs, much longer, leading me to places I’d never been before, new systems for screening and passport check with photo and/or face recognition technology, whatever – the flashing bright lights there made it so exciting. Then back to my past: the same old, very small windows, where a bored French functionary stamps your passport. I did wear a N95 mask in the airports, and I guess I had to reveal my face once again here to get through customs. Whew. By the way, I’m really hot, sweaty, and travel tired by this time.

Next, finding the Train station at CDG. Had to get to an exit area and then take airport shuttle and walk through crowds (that were close to oppressive), but I kept moving & positive. No signs to help me know where to go until I had already covered another 2 miles it seemed & asked a lot of directions. « Juste par là » Just this way, and they’d point ahead or to the left, as if it was obvious. Finally: la Gare. Trains to Paris and other directions!

Lin Min was heading to Bordeaux to get a master’s degree in French. She said I was the first person to speak to her in France. We are now friends and she even wants to read my blog. She is so brave to come here to learn her 4th language and find a career eventually.

She and so many other kind folks all along my way made my getting to France, and eventually to Agen, by 4:30 pm on Tuesday better! I am thankful, and I am feeling lots better after my shower and a good night’s sleep. Now, I’m off to enjoy my first breakfast in France.