11/26/2005. Fall Trilogy III--Le Chemin de Randonnée

Drive through any part of rural France on a weekend, and you'll see a remarkable number of people on foot. Couples, whole families, even big groups of friends, aged people arm-in-arm, groups of teenagers--the French delight in walking knows no bounds. They aren't power-walking; they're simply out prenant l'air--taking the air. There are many delightful French words to describe this activity: se balader, se promener, cheminer. But most of all, I love the word randonnée, which means a long walk, usually in a loop so you end up back where you started. For me, it has cross-over English overtones of "random"--of walking with all the purpose and volition of a piece of thistledown. But actually, it's derived from a verb in archaic French--randonner--which meant "to run rapidly."



One of the most wonderful things about Europe is that it is criss-crossed with ancient footpaths, which are still maintained for public access. These are the paths along which humans have walked since ancient times--from farm to farm, from village to village. They are paths that have witnessed the gamut of human activity and along which the tapestry of history has been woven. In France, such paths are marked in red and white as on the tree above, the official symbol of the chemin de randonnée. The violet dot--rarely seen--means that beyond the path is private property. In fact, the French idea of private property in the country is much more lax than in the U.S. Walkers don't hesitate to traverse private property, being careful and considerate to do no harm, and their doing so is largely accepted.



To follow these paths is often to see the countryside almost as it must have existed in the 19th century. Although the chemins de randonnée often cross or rejoin roads, they mostly run cross-country, between villages and farms. In the age of the automobile, they are truly the roads less travelled--and so much the better. And yet, they are easy to find. They are clearly indicated on France's IGN maps--the French equivalent of NGS topographical maps. But really, all you need to do is drive slowly enough along any two-lane road to notice the red and white emblazoned on tree trunks or fence posts.



Walking the chemins de randonnée is one of my favorite weekend activities. Last Sunday, after the hoarfrost melted off, Denis and I drove a couple of kilometers to the nearby Manoir d'Auffay, a small ch”teau partly hidden like a slumbering Cinderella castle behind an allée of magnificent beech trees. Although uninhabited, it is maintained by an association, which sometimes opens it to the public.





However, on this chilly November day, the manoir was closed. The only inhabitants around were some cows, a small mixed herd of brindle-and-white Normans and some Charolais. Denis loves to serenade cows with a romantic and wistful sounding moo-oooo. When they heard his plaintive love-call, several of them came over to the fence to investigate, with Monsieur de Vache, proprietor of the estate, in the lead.




Reluctant to leave the cows, but eager to see where the path would lead, we climbed up a long grade through a deep woods. The banks on either side of the path were lined with staghorn and other ferns, and in places, lush emerald cushions of moss covered the tree roots. Beeches and oaks towered overhead, creating a fitting segueway from the modern road we had left behind to the back-of-beyond of the countryside.

As we emerged from the forest, a hedge of privet lined the path. It bustled with birds feasting on its marble-sized blue fruits, and they screeched their indignation angrily as we walked by. Since we had interrupted their feeding anyway, we stopped to admire a nest that was, well, nestled, in the branches of the privet, making me reflect on the origin of that lovely word.



Not long after we emerged from the woods, we came upon a mare and foal in an emerald green pasture. The foal eyed us shyly from behind his dam's curvaceous rump. Then he ventured out to gamble alongside us for a bit. We were now on a high plateau--ground which must have originally belonged to the Manoir d'Auffay below. Fertile fields rolled away to the horizon on either side of the path, and in the distance ahead of us, we could see signs of a village. Traversing the plain, we found the time to talk of all the things we hadn't had time for during the week.



We approached the village through the back end of a farm. One side of the path, three goats tensely watched our approach. One was tethered, but as we neared them, the other two bounded like rabbits off into a gorse hedge where they hid, to the immense distress of the remaining tethered goat. From the sound of her voice, at least one of them must have been her grown-up baby. I know, because my grown-up babies are out of sight too, on the other side of the Atlantic. "Let's turn back," I urged Denis. I wanted to leave the goats in peace so that they would return to their mother.



When we got back into the forest, the sun was already low in the sky, and the temperature dropping. I buttoned up my coat as we came back to the Manoir d'Auffay. I saw a sign on the gate listing plays that would be presented there in June of 2006, and made a mental note that we should come to see them. I'd never been inside the Manoir, and besides, what could be nicer than a play on a summer evening in a lost Cinderella castle?



The house felt deliciously warm when we got back and stepped inside. We fanned life into the embers in the fireplace, feeding them some logs. A lengthy randonnée on a chilly afternoon gives you an appetite and, as dinner was still several hours away, I took out a selection of cheeses, some walnuts, our own apples and pears, and the rest of last night's burgundy. Savoring this quintessential fall snack, we shared a moment of cheese reverie as we fell alternately under the spell of a 36-month Comté, the tomme de Savoie fermier, the mystère d'Ambert, or the Phébus.

As I lay in bed that night, my mind wandered once more the chemins de randonnée we had taken that afternoon. Walking these ancient paths leads me into the mythic country I carry inside me--a place where people still step humbly before the force of nature, leaving no more than a trace through the forest.

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