Day 19 – Coole to Corbeil

When the burdens of the presidency seem unusually heavy, I always remind myself it could be worse. I could be a mayor. President Lyndon Johnson

Thursday 19/4/2018

Distance 19.3km Total Distance from Canterbury 482.4km

I am not sure that I have ever met a real live mayor before. But I have now.

The evening yesterday with Monique and Jean-Pierre was exceptional, even within an exceptional week. You are invited in, to become a member of the family, instantly. Welcoming people is a hobby – they each had proper jobs, farming for him and something in town for her. They have just retired and we discovered that we were all born in the best of all years, 1954! They are widely travelled, having visited Asia, South America and South Africa, along with many places in Europe. But they are home-birds. They have two sons who live with their families respectively two and three doors away. Although Monique speaks faultless English, Jean-Pierre doesn’t so it is good to make an effort to speak French in such a circumstance, so as no one is excluded. I think this is simple manners. And I believe he would rather hear bad French than good English! They were really interesting and spoke about the change in the countryside. Less and less people. There is no longer a school in the village, and the church rarely has a service. But they love it still! Last year Jean-Pierre broke his arm and this turned out to be due to  a growth, but his treatment seems to have been very successful. That was what he went to the hospital about today. When he broke his arm she ‘had to look after him’. A few weeks ago Monique fell and broke her arm. Now he ‘has to look after her!’ Karma. They are fun people. He cooked a wonderful tarte aux poireaux which, as may not guess, is a leek quiche. And of course cheese and salad of the highest quality, salad from the garden. And white wine to start followed by red. They had had three pilgrims the previous night. Meanwhile they have a full social life with friends round about. As i learned from a friend who arrived on a ‘busy day’ they will just bundle you in the car and bring you along. And again difficulty in persuading them to accept a gift.

What everyone says when you thank them for kindness is C’est normale, It is normal. Sadly it is not really normal, I think. What do you think?  But imagine if it were. Hospitality and kindness often are or were fundamental human attributes. But not everywhere. Sadly the modern lifestyle often suppresses it. I lived in Africa for almost 20 years and this kind of hospitality is still to be found there. Not always and not everywhere, but I think moreso than in other places I have lived. The Bible has a few things to say: Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unaware. (Hebrews 13:2) and again: You shall treat the stranger who sojourns with you as the native among you, and you shall love him as yourself, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt. (Leviticus 19:34) There is something humbling about being the recipient of kindness in a strange place. It surely requires a personal response sometime later.

My best wishes to Monique and Jean-Pierre. Allons! the class of ’54. I hope they will have a long and happy retirement.

Monique, in Maquis mode, rang ahead down the line yesterday evening and spoke to the Mayor of Corbeil. I am not sure I have ever had anything to do with a mayor on a personal level before. The Maire of Corbeil is a lady, Beatrice Mirofle and she is helped by the Mayor’s consort, (I don’t suppose they call it that in France) her husband Michel. The tiniest of places have a mairie or town hall. It is often quite an old building. Quite often quite a significant building and quite often also the same building houses both the mayor’s office and the school. And a bit later, I saw a mairie which had a lavoir, the traditional communal washing area on the ground floor with the mayor’s office upstairs.

Corbeil where I was to stay next is smaller than the villages of Rathdangan or Kiltegan, for instance, near where I live. The population is 441. But it has a maire and a mairie. The maire is an agent of the state and an agent of the commune, with many responsibilities. Among them, happily is hospitality, and it seems to be taken very seriously. I have met a few more maires along the way since. From the notices on their official noticeboards, they seem to do a lot of intermediation with Veolia, who appear to be in charge of water supply and refuse collection in many areas. They are also involved in planning applications and host of other things. And certainly feast days and celebrations come into their portfolio.

The road was dead straight again along the Voie Romaine, the Roman Road yet again. Roman roads are reassuring. All Roman roads do, in some sense, lead to Rome, so if you are on the Roman Road you are probably going in the right direction.

Not too far today and it included a passage through the village whose name had appealed to me Le Meix Tercelin. Nothing there except, and this seemed quite unlikely, a large ladies hairdressing salon. Which was closed, but you knew that already didn’t you? And another day in a small village I saw one of those electronic noticeboards with streaming messages, set up by the mairie. And the message on it was upcoming days off at the ladies hairdressers!! These things are important.

So I arrived at Corbeil – a crossroads with two buildings a rather nice church and the mairie. And a sign on the door telling me I had arrived at the refuge. Refuge is not such an intimidating word in French as it is in English.   

I let myself in. Nothing was locked. The room contained a camp bed, a table, a few school benches and a table tennis table, complete with net and bats in a drawer. There was a microwave and a filter coffee machine, and plenty of coffee. That was it really although in the entrance, marked solemnly as privé there was a toilet with a cold water tap.

I made myself at home, as much as I could, feeling a bit despondent about the lack of other amenities. Such as food. The door opened and a slightly distinguished and business like lady appeared, and she introduced herself as the mayor. I was a bit tongue-tied, not because of the language but because of the aura of majesty. But of course, like everyone I have met (in France!) she was as nice as could be and gave me a big welcome and told me her husband would be along later to help me. She did point out a feature I had not noticed – a plastic bowl in which I could soak my feet – in cold water.

Michel duly arrived an hour later to greet me and to tell me he would be bringing me some food, but he needed to know would I prefer beer or wine. He came back shortly afterwards bearing a basket of goodies – my supper and my breakfast. He gave me useful information for the way ahead, telling me for instance that the pilgrim gîte in the town for the next night had been commandeered by the army for the moment and that sadly the presbytère at my town for the night after that  was no longer able to accept pilgrims but he had other suggestions. And he proudly told me that the honey for breakfast was his own production. Another example of c’est normal’ kindness which was very special.

Not a soul to be seen or heard in the village. Just a dog barking. I could lock the door from the inside if I wished, but there didn’t seem any point. I pondered on the generations of children who had learned to read and write in that single room. Where were they now? What had become of them? And the answer for a few was right outside the door. Every tiny village has its memorial to ‘the war to end all wars’. Would that it had…..