After sex, walking is my favorite pastime, so here goes another walking story. I won’t promise that it will be the last!
A few years ago, probably after a silly row with Patsy, I decided to go off by myself for a week’s walk in the Aveyron. This is a region at the western limit of the Massif Central, and is one of the most beautiful of France. Its name comes from the river that is one of the four that have their sources in the snows of the Massif and all join the great Garonne and thus end up in the Atlantic at the Gironde Estuary. The others are the Dordogne, the Tarn, and the Lot.
The main pilgrimage trail to Saint Jacques de Compostella in Spain runs through the Aveyron. Some years ago, with some fellow walkers, (like me, not all genuine pilgrims), I followed this trail of which the high point is the 11th century abbey of Sainte-Foy at Conques, one of the great pilgrimage destinations in the Middle Ages . The new abbey is now part of a lovely gothic cathedral. We were very lucky that day; there were no rooms in the few local hotels, so, thanks to my friend Charlie Tantet, a true Pilgrim, we were lodged with the monks in the Abbey---and very comfortably . When I admitted to being a heretic (Protestant), the Abbot was especially hospitable! Maybe he saw a potential convert in me.
The northern part of the Aveyron is rolling pasture land through which the river cuts very deeply, making for gorges and canyons of wild beauty. The towns are mostly perched on the cliffs above the river, and have maintained their medieval character, which attracts the usual tourist with his green Michelin Guide. On my drive, I saw a really extraordinary sight; a petrified waterfall .This was near Villefranche-de-Rouergue, if you want to look it up. I drove along the northern edge of the river to prepare for my first walk which is a well-known one called the Gorges de l’Aveyron, a 13 kilometer steep hike down to the river and along the river bed to finally climb up to the starting place. Like all the main trails in France, it is well-marked with the familiar red and white stripes on trees and stones. I checked into a small family-style hotel in the market town of Rignac, spent a quiet night, and started out the next morning for the beginning of the trail, about two miles away.
It was a beautiful Fall day, and I was in great form (I thought). The trail led slowly at first along the ridge of the river, and then became steeper and steeper, as the gorge narrowed. The going was tough, more than I had counted on. Then suddenly about noon, I felt my heart beating rapidly and irregularly. From past experience, I knew I was in trouble! I tried to use my cellphone, but it was apparently in a dead zone. Then I came across a small rocky clearing, where I could get a signal. I reached the St. Hilaire Clinic in Agen where my heart doctor has his office. Very faintly, I heard the voice of a Secretary who said that Dr, Denisi was on holiday in Corsica. Her only advice, before we were cut off, was to slowly get back to my hotel! The poor girl was in as much panic as I was. (Later, when I was back home, she admitted that she could have had the Gendarmerie locate me immediately with their GPS. That is what I should have done, as well before the signal was lost, but my first instinct was to call the Clinic).
So there I was, struggling up the hill, all alone, in great pain, and very worried. I kept shouting at the top of my voice, but there was no-one in earshot, except for flocks of birds that I frightened away. After awhile, I stopped shouting, as it increased my pain.
Then presently, I remembered seeing a small hamlet off to the side of the Trail. Here was my chance for a farmer to take me to town. With great difficulty, I made it to the hamlet, ---to find it totally deserted!
What to do ? On the off chance that there might be some sign of life around, I circled the little square, and, lo and behold, I heard the sounds of barking dogs. They were two large Dalmatians, and they led me to their house, and a very nice lady looking out of an upstairs window. She saw that I was in serious trouble and took me into her garden, laid me out and gave me water and, I think, a pain–killer. Explaining my situation the best I could, I asked her to drive me to town. She said that she didn’t have a car, but she would call her husband, who was a doctor!!
Now how about that for luck ?
In a few minutes, a car drove up, and this doctor took me in hand immediately. Back at his office, he did the usual things in such emergencies, bringing the heart rhythm back to somewhere near normal, and put me to bed. Unbeknownst to me, he had promptly called the Clinic in Agen, where they put him through to Dr. Denisi, who was still on a beach in Corsica. He also called Patsy, of course. who had not been worried since everything happened the first day . She wanted to come and take me home, but in my condition, that was a no-no. So next morning, an ambulance arrived from Rodez, the Capital of the Aveyron, with three drivers. Why three? The third one was there to drive our car back home! You can’t beat the French for that kind of thing.
I was not only fortunate to find a doctor, but he was a gerontologist as well. Originally from Paris, he and his wife decided to beat the stress of the big city, build a practice in a small town, and restore an old country house---which, by the way, was absolutely charming, showing great taste.
Back at the Clinic in Agen, I was about to pay the price of my folly---three days in Intensive Care---and over a weekend, too. Then I had to go through a long series of tests before being discharged, The good news was that, despite all the strains on my heart, it had suffered no damage. But I had to eat humble pie not only for Doctor Denisi, but of course big helpings for Patsy; so the morale of the story is its title "Never Walk Alone".
And I learnt my lesson for good.
Condom-en Armagnac, September 17, 2007
Labels: Tener Eckelberry
