THE MERRY PILGRIM
The climb is steep and the prices steeper but this French monastery delivers for Mike Alexander
IT is in the mid-30°Cs today but down here in the valley the temperature feels much higher. By the time I reach the last of the ancient stone mills, tumbling in on itself, I feel a bit like I, too, am beginning to crumble.
The hike from where I have left my car to Rocamadour is only about 8km along a track that zigzags across the River l’Ouysse. The last time I hiked this way, it was late spring and the river was gushing steadily. Three times I’d had to take off my boots and wade across — not deep but breathtakingly cold. Now, in full summer, the waters have receded beneath the dry sand and rock and it is difficult to imagine there ever was a stream here. My companion, Miss P, trots on ahead, tail in the air, quite unconcerned by the heat.
One kilometre later the narrow valley suddenly opens up ahead of me. High to my right, incorporated into the steep cliffs above me, stands the monastery of Rocamadour. Made of the same limestone as the cliffs, it appears to have evolved rather than been created by the ingenuity of man. It is not surprising that such an architectural feat has become the second-most visited site in France.
I take a deep breath and begin the slow trudge upwards along the ever-steepening path that contours back and forth. Pilgrims have been coming here for hundreds of years, some from nearly 1 000km away and I feel like a bit of a wimp for being so exhausted after my short march. Eventually, I reach the narrow cobbled streets that make up the village. Here it is hard to move because of wall-to-wall tourists, ice-cream vendors and people selling curios, most of whom have dropped in by car or bus. I wonder what the ancient pilgrims would have made of all this.
A few hundred metres into the village a narrow staircase leads off to my right. Its stone steps are incredibly steep — no way would they pass any modern-day building regulations. From here, the climb to the monastery and its seven chapels really begins. Within living memory, pilgrims used to come here and ascend step by step on their knees, saying a short prayer on each one. Today, there is a lift. I stare up the intimidating stairway, relieved I am not going up on my knees. Any guilt I may feel is assuaged by the fact that, metaphorically at least, I have been on my knees for the past 2km.
A waiter leaning against the door to a nearby bar spots me as a potential target. I am not sure what gave me away. The slightly shaking knees perhaps. Or maybe it was the fierce, red glow emanating from that patch of my skull where hair used to grow before it decided to emigrate south, to take up residence on the tops of my ears and my eyebrows.
“A cold beer perhaps? It is still 279 steps before you see the Black Madonna,” the waiter points out. The Madonna is a small statue of the Virgin Mary, reputed to have been carved by Zacchaeus himself when he came to this area to escape persecution as an early Christian.
I consider the waiter’s offer and realise that the risk of dehydration is high under these hot conditions, so I allow myself to be led into the cool, dark interior of the bar. The beer slides down so smoothly, I follow it with another and one more after that for safety’s sake.
Miss P is anxious to get moving again, so I call for the bill which, when it comes, is considerably higher than what I am used to paying in the little village just down the road.
“Remember me to the Black Madonna.” He winks. I’ll remember him to the Madonna all right. She is going to hear all about his prices.
I start the slow climb, expecting it to be torturous, but fortified with cold beer and seduced by the extraordinary architecture, I hardly notice the climb. When finally I pop out at the monastery ramparts, the views are breathtaking. With my mood considerably improved, I don’t even mention to the Madonna the racket that is taking place below her. She might have more important things to deal with than the price of beer anyway.
It is still 279 steps before you see the Black Madonna