I write from Poitiers, two days out from Tours, with about 150 km of cycling to our credit. In previous travel blogs I’ve tried to do daily posts, but there’s been little time to write during these past couple of days. That’s my excuse, at any rate, and I’m sticking to it.
So this post, an anthology of sorts, covers the time (& space) between Paris and Poitiers, and is copiously illustrated with photos that feature (among other subjects): nuns; rain; scenic beauty, horses; signage, cups of coffee, and yes: pastries; specifically: a gland. Surgeon’s warning: best consumed in portions (this post, not the gland), with a suitable beverage in hand.
But before the pilgrimage can begin, the author must first make his way to Tours…
Day 0: Paris to Tours by TGV
Our Paris hotel is about 5km from the Gare Montparnasse, the station which serves southwest France. Cycling through the streets of Paris is always fun, and a great stimulator of adrenaline; the secret is to simply stay in motion, behave as though you know exactly where you’re going, and to pedal as fast as possible.
The Gare Montparnasse is usually busy, with the tracks for the departs grand lignes situated on the second floor. I’d arrived well in advance of my 12:24 TGV departure, so that I could pack up my bike as luggage, which is the only way to bring a bicycle on a TGV (unless you’d managed to book a bicycle space on the TGV departures which offer them—which I had not).
The specific tracks assigned for each departing train are announced 30 minutes before departure, which meant I’d have less than half an hour to get to my carriage, remove the necessary bits (handlebars; pedals), and fit the bike into my heavy plastic Air Canada bicycle bag. I made it; just.
I’d tried to book a room for A&I in the Basilica’s pilgrim accommodation in Tours, the Maison Saint Ambroise, but had not received a reply. So, when I arrived, the nuns called around on their cell phones (discreetly hidden; perhaps modern habits include a special cell phone pocket?), trying to track down the hospitaliers. A&I waited patiently in a nearby pew, catching up on our respective travels. Evidently we caught up a bit too loudly, since a nun swept up to us with a finger at her lips, gently reminding us that “People are trying to pray!”
A had come by ferry from Cork to Roscoff, and had cycled the path alongside the Brest-Nantes canal, to Nantes, and then had made his way by bike and train up the Loire to Tours.
The Basilica in Tours has 5 resident nuns, and a pair of volunteer hospitaliers who oversee the pilgrims as they arrive: stamping their credentials; taking down basic information; explaining the routines (no shoes in the rooms; backpacks in a plastic tub; etc).
There was just one other pilgrim the night A&I were there, so we’d had a room to ourselves.
The other pilgrim was a French cyclist carrying far too much gear—rear and front panniers, plus a large extra bag buckled on top of the rear panniers. He’d developed a sore knee as a result, and seemed doubtful about his chances of making it all the way to Santiago de Compostela, his goal.
The hospitaliers of the Maison Saint Ambroise also offer an evening meal at a modest cost. “We’re not professional chefs” one hospitalier had warned me; “That’s fine, we’re not professional eaters.” Smiles all around. Nevertheless, when we arrived at 7 sharp for the evening meal, my heart sank to see nothing but grey wedges of pâté on a plate, and some bread. “There’s also soup, but you can’t have both.” In such apparently meagre circumstances I discovered that it is difficult—but not impossible—to stuff oneself with several helpings of pâté and bread without appearing impolite. It was only when the pâté had completely disappeared that the hospitaliers revealed that there was more to the evening meal: the main course—chicken fried rice a la français—had been hidden in the kitchen all long.
Day 1: Tours to Sainte-Maure-de-Touraine (60 km)
The countryside south of Tours is fairly flat, and we made our way along quiet roads using a combination of Camino signage, Michelin (paper) maps, and Google (digital) maps on our phones. We dodged storm clouds all day, and rain showers, as well as one or two outright deluges, before arriving at Sainte-Maure-de-Touraine, where we found beds at the local halte Jacquaire, which was located just out of town (uphill, of course). Door code obtained from the Office de Tourisme, where our pilgrim credentials were examined, and stamped, and payment taken. Some photos of the day’s ride are shown below.
The halte (or refuge) at Sainte-Maure-de-Touraine is fairly simple, with a common room, a bathroom, and a basic kitchen downstairs, and 4 bunk beds upstairs. It is located about 2 km outside of town, and was slightly damp, though there was a wood-fired heater if we’d been desperate.
The refuge appeared to be the central preoccupation of the nearby residents, who are all retired, with not much else to distract them. One neighbor, directly across the street, seemed to have appointed herself official protector of the refuge, enforcing proper key usage, lock box closure, bike parking etc. After settling in, we coasted back into town for a kebab dinner before returning “home” to shower and sleep.
Day 2: Sainte-Maure-de-Touraine to Poitiers (90 km)
We’d estimated days of about 60 km on average; Day 2 proved to be an above average day. Again, the skies threatened (and occasionally delivered) rain, and we arrived in Poitiers slightly soggy, with tired legs, and ready for a rest day. I speak for myself, of course; A seems indefatigable, which I attribute to his youth, and that ride along the Brest-Nantes canal.
Today’s ride featured our first “proper” pastry, a gland, which is shown below.
Day 3: A rest day in Poitiers
Normally you’re only permitted a single night’s stay in these refuges, or haltes Jacquaire, which are often run by associations like les Amis de Saint Jacque en Vienne, or by the local municipality. At the discretion of the hospitalier you might be allowed a second night, space permitting. As it turned out, no one was expected the next night, which made it possible for A&I to stay on here, rather than having to find a chambre d’hôte or a hotel.
The hospitaliers are volunteer, and must have had some experience as a pilgrim themselves. Ours lives a short distance away from Poitiers, and will be hospitalier here for a week. She’s 82, looks amazingly fit, and still considers doing another chemin, a section of one of the many “ways” leading to Santiago de Compostela.
She’d made a quiche at home, and a large pot of vegetable soup, and had brought these to share with les pèlerins. Before A&I arrived, around 6:30 or 7:00, there were three pilgrims, who had arrived earlier on foot. A&I made five, and just as we were tucking in, another pèlerin arrived. We’d all contributed something to the meal: bread, cheese, fruit, the delicious pastries from Fink. Everyone traded stories from their various chemins over the years, since many become addicted to this way of traveling, the camaraderie, the fresh air etc.
As things turned out, our rest day was well-timed. First: Poitiers is a lovely town; not too big, not too small, with several churches, a cathedral, and a beautiful historic centre. Our rest day, a Saturday, also happened to be market day, as you’ve seen. We visited the Cathedral Saint-Pierre, where there was a service in progress, a celebration of first communions for a number of the younger parishioners, and the Église Notre-Dame la Grande, with beautiful polychrome columns, and carved figures in the chapels.
As an added bonus, the Olympic flame was scheduled to arrive in Poitiers in the late afternoon, so there was great excitement, flags, and many armed gendarmes wandering about the centre of town.
And so it goes!
The Way of Tours 
my two favourite cyclists, together again!
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Wonderful to have you along for the ride! (And don’t forget that you still hold the position of Pope in the Church of J2 and M, from last fall)
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Being French, I completely relate to a few of your observations “Cycling through the streets of Paris … a great stimulator of adrenaline”, so true! 😀
As a French person arriving in Ireland 25 years ago, I was nicely surprised that the Gardaí had no weapons on, the gendarmes (literally : the people (gens) of the (d’) weapons (armes)…) always have weapons…
Loved the “gland” interpretation, never saw it that way! 😀
Thank you for the pictures and humour!
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