When the world seems to be too noisy, I find it good to listen to a more powerful voice: silence. One morning a few weeks ago, I set out on a quiet walk along one of the Chemin de Saint-Jacques de Compostelle trails in southern France.
A light rain had been falling that morning. It subsided by mid-morning, leaving the landscape surrounding the village of Villasavary saturated in color from the sun peeking from behind a curtain of clouds.
For hundreds of years, the Chemin de Saint-Jacques de Compostelle, perhaps known better by its Spanish translation Camino de Santiago, has been a pilgrimage route to the shrine of the apostle James in the Santiago de Compostela Cathedral in Spain. Many medieval pilgrims have undertaken the journey seeking penitence with the more serious sins requiring a longer journey. My six-mile trek wouldn’t have absolved me of too many sins, but I hoped it would wipe out the string of colorful phrases I uttered when, on my return, I slipped on loose gravel, sending me tumbling and making a mess of my knee.
As the flat landscape turned to rolling hills, I passed a small farm where a herd of goats grazed in a grassy enclosure. Since I stopped for a moment, the goats took a moment to come up to me and tell me with loud bleats of all their goat woes, trials, and tribulations. I would have thought a day of munching wet grass in a quiet meadow would be quite the life for a goat, but I was apparently mistaken.
Further along the path, I met a group of six people from Canada and the States, along with their two dogs, out for a morning walk. One of the women asked if I was photographing butterflies, telling me the section of trail was one of the best places in Europe to watch the little winged creatures. I had to take her word for it since I saw only one lone butterfly on my entire journey.
We wished each other safe journeys, and I continued along the grassy trail, passing sunflower fields, vineyards, and plowed fields. I thought about all the people who have walked this path before me: the pilgrims, the penitents, the traders and troubadours, and the more recent joggers with their dogs. Aside from the group I had met, however, I had the trail and the view to myself, enjoying the restorative solitude.
Under the cloudy sky, surrounded by lush scenery, time seemed to slow down, it's passing measured by the quiet crunch of the dirt path under my sandals.
The trail ascended through a forest to the village of Fanjeaux, perched atop a green hill with its church tower visible for miles. I’m not one who goes around normally using the word “charming,” but it is entirely fitting when describing Fanjeaux’s medieval center. A group of cats eyed me cautiously as I strolled through the center’s narrow stone streets lined with buildings that feel like they haven’t changed much over the centuries.
At noon, the church bell marked the time, its metallic clangs resonating through the narrow streets and across the countryside. Then silence once more claimed its victory.
Comments