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Day B27 - Mediterranean to Atlantic, done

It took me all day, but I finished the last day of my 19 miles with a sense of achievement and of relief.

But the hike itself was quite dreadful. To get back to Lesparre to begin the hike to Soulac, I had a choice of two trains, one at 6.33 am and another at 11.40 am. The latter was too late, so I chose the one that was too early. Arriving at Lesparre at 6.50 am, it was dark - and with daylight-savings-time, it wouldn't be light until 8 am - even on a clear day. Well, it wasn't a clear day, and it started to rain. There was nowhere to stop for even a coffee and baguette. At best I could shelter from the rain under an awning - or I could walk.

I walked. The rain got worse, and the grass verge got muddy. Moreover, it had lots of molehills - and into the mole-holes my boots descended.

Then it got breezy, and later blustery. When daylight arrived, positively the only good thing about the situation was that I'd covered a couple of miles safely. I hoped the rain would subside as the day warmed, but it hardly warmed and the rain hardly eased at all. It took another three miles before there was any improvement. Having planned the day's route with Steve B, I swung onto a side road to Vensac which at least relieved traffic concerns, but then the rain resumed in full force, and I reckoned I'd better stay close to the bus route in case I called it a day. So I swung back to the main road.

If things weren't miserable enough already, there was worse to come. The wind strengthened at about 11 am to what was assuredly gale force, and it stayed at that strength for the rest of the day. When it rained, there was no possibility of using the umbrella. It was hood-up and head-down, lean forward and trudge. On any other day of this entire hike, I would have run for cover. But not on the last day.

Eventually, the rain eased and sometimes stopped. But not the wind. Worse, for the last three miles it veered towards my front, and then the road swung left so I was headed right into it. When I reached the beach at Soulac, where there was nothing to break the force of the wind, breakers raced for the shore and the sea was muddy from churning up sand. The beachfront was quite deserted, and it was hard to keep on my feet.

But nothing was going to stop me finishing now. Though the wind* made it a challenge, I swept my hand through the Atlantic surf, and the hike was done.

* With the help of my friend, Steve B, who located historical weather data here, I was later able to quantify the windspeeds today, taking the average of the nearest four coastal weather stations. In the early afternoon, when I was reaching Soulac, winds averaged 74 km/h (46 mph) with gusts to 103 km/h (64 mph).

Hiking without the backpack was essential today.  With it, I couldn't have walked the distance in these winds. I haven't spoken about injuries recently. My battered big toe takes its daily hammering, and does not get worse, but it's painful. My toes are otherwise in reasonable shape, given that my bruised, black toenails will heal.  I am pleasantly surprised by my ankles, which have stood up nicely. My right ankle used to roll easily - and once that started, the tendons stretched and then it rolled even more easily. That hasn't happened this hike, and though I would like to give credit to a few strengthening exercises, I am mystified. My arthritic right knee has occasionally scraped on itself, and given pain, but I seem to unconsciously avoid the maneuvers which cause that, or muscle development has helped.

I am probably quite fit cardiovascularly now, a blessing and a reward for six to eight hours of vigorous exercise every day.

I have two worries. My shoulders ache even without the pack, which brings to mind a rotator cuff injury from the last hike, and the operation which took months of recovery. I hope I haven't messed that up. Also, I too-often feel strain at the site of my first (and only) hernia operation, and I really don't want a second. The backpack weight can't help. In today's conditions, I don't think I could have finished with the backpack on.

So, if Hobson hobbles home now, it's as well that's it's over while he still can.

I also don't want to pretend for a moment that this hike - or my previous ones - are in any way remarkable. Younger and even older folks do these hikes easily and faster and probably more often than me. I can only speak for myself, and say that these hikes are the hardest of my own physical challenges.

When I finally reached the beach at Soulac-sur-mer, I was drained of energy. But after the shortest of rests, my energy was replenished by a sense of accomplishment. I had walked 375 miles in 27 days, averaging 14 miles (22 km) a day. More importantly, I'd seen an untold number of beautiful sights and experienced a new (to me) culture and language, and wonderfully-welcoming people.

The long, long walk had been arduous, but also often exhilarating. My terrible first day had given way to better but always-challenging ones. The worst snow in twenty years had been replaced by spring on the sunlit uplands of the continental divide. Then the cold had come back, and then sun again, and then wind and rain, and then a couple of days of summery weather. The final day was as bad as anything I'd previously experienced. But a real hike, which of course is a long-distance one, is about surviving the elements and the moments when every step seems more than one can bear and the end may still be hundreds of thousands of steps away - so that keeping the faith is by no means a given. As the French say, it takes "bon courage".

I had explored my innermost thoughts. It is what a solo hike invites, but they can still be elusive. I thought about blessings and misfortune, about youth and age, about loved ones lost and loved ones that can still come home, and what can yet be, and what can't.

The Cordouan's structure by day, and its light by night, were as prominent on the horizon as a five-mile distant object can be. Hobson and I had secretly dreamed of visiting the Cordouan Lighthouse.

We could take a boat ride," said Hobson.

I told Hobson that the boat tour runs only in summer. And, no, we're not going to "borrow" a boat, and land on the rocks in raging seas and a fearsome tide to end up in the hands of St. Peter or the gendarmes.

"If it's St. Peter, we're doomed," said Hobson. "I'd rather take my chance in a French prison."

"The water temperature is up to 6 degC," Hobson added, as if precision could make the impossible possible. "It's exactly 5.3 miles on a bearing of 339 deg."

I told Hobson we weren't going to swim, and he acknowledged defeat with a sigh. But not for a moment did we want to swim anyway. It just wasn't the time of year for a foolhardy shot at fulfilling this particular dream.

"King Henri IV never even visited," one of us said, referring to the last French monarch to have funded the lighthouse, which was extravagantly equipped with a sumptuous suite of rooms for him.

"If the King never visited, then neither shall we!"

Dreams, you see, do not always come true. If they did, there would be no dreams. We must save some for the future to keep our dreams alive.  And, with the lighthouse no more than a beckoning column on the horizon, Hobson ended his hike having reached the Atlantic coast. And so did I.

The Cordouan Lighthouse

For those interested in the significance of the Cordouan Lighthouse, I've prepared this footnote.

The Cordouan Lighthouse sits at the mouth of the Gironde estuary, out at sea but easily visible from Soulac. In factual terms, it's the world's 12th tallest lighthouse at 223 ft or 68 m, not bad for a structure built 1584-1611. (It was heightened slightly in 1788-1789, but without reworking the pre-existing foundations and superstructure.)

The importance of its location can be gauged from the fact that there have been lighthouses on the same site since the year 880, though then lit only by a fire and visible for a very short distance.

In its 1584 recreation, Cordouan was designed and built by Louis de Foix. The purpose was the safe export of Bordeaux wines. As Wikipedia reports . . .

The King's quarters allow the Cordouan to be called the "King of lighthouses, and the lighthouse of Kings".

As The Times reported, "the Fresnel lens is a round glass plate [or plates] carved into concentric rings, with each ring slightly thinner than the next and angled slightly differently, focusing the light from a lamp to the centre and then out over the horizon".

This lightweight set of lenses made possible what could only previously have been done with an enormously heavy and impractically thick lens.

Fresnel lenses let lighthouses be seen at night on the horizon, but they have a place in our everyday lives also. Have you ever seen a traffic light, used an overhead projector, seen a car tail light, or used a flat magnifying glass?

The Fresnel lens made its debut at Cordouan.

Cordouan is still manned and operated, and still uses a Fresnel lens.