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decided to retrace the first part of a bicycle journey I
made 28 years ago. That original journey had taken
me overland from England through Europe and the
Middle East to India.I’ve often contemplated the life-
changing experiences from that time, and how the
journey redefined me in my own eyes. With a wife,
two children, work commitments and six extra
inches on my waistline, I wasn’t at all sure what
awaited me on this reprise.
I found myself in France. Having only a record of the cities I had passed through, I could not be
sure that I would find the same roads I had traveled before, but wanted to try. In Blois in the
Loire valley, I rented a bicycle, with an arrangement to return it in 2 weeks to a bike shop in
Toulouse, south of France.
France was even more beautiful than I remembered. In the last decade, a passion had seized the
nation for planting flowers most everywhere. My way was punctuated with bursts of fuschia, pink
and crimson in gardens, village squares and in baskets hanging from lampposts. I cycled along
narrow country roads with few cars. The skies became bluer the further south I traveled.
As I approached Cognac, I wondered if I should visit the Vignaults. I had stayed with them only
two nights those many years ago, on their small farm where they kept a few goats and grew white
grapes for cognac. I remember their unquestioning hospitality, lengthy evening meals around a
huge table filled with people and a parting gift of illicit triple-distilled cognac. Still, I didn't
know whether they would remember me. Perhaps they were no longer alive. Perhaps they had
moved. A lot happens in people's lives over this span of time. Although I felt uncertain about
arriving unannounced, I decided to visit.
Come with me now. The village of La Brousse has no more than 15 homes,yet as I cycle back and
forth along the two streets, I can't remember their house. The village appears deserted, but I find
an old woman in her garden. In my halting French, I ask for the house of Monsieur Vignault. As I
approach the house, shutters of peeling ochre-colored paint are the only detail in this scene that
causes a tug of familiarity in my memory. I cycle into the small courtyard formed by house and
barns. A large-framed old man sits shelling peas on a stone step outside the front door with a
bowl between his knees. I ask for Monsieur Vignault. "Je suis Monsieur Vignault," he responds in a
quiet, gentle manner with that wisdom to conserve energy and emotion only the elderly seem to
have.
He does not recognize me. In imperfect French I explain that I stayed with him almost 30 years
ago. He is silent a moment, looking intently into my eyes. Then, with a gentle smile he reminds me
of something I had forgotten: Brian, my traveling companion had left behind his tent and M.
Vignault mailed it back to England. I laugh out loud at the humor of the moment, me expecting
him to have forgotten, yet he remembering more than I.
We talk a while, then his son arrives with wife and two beautiful young daughters. I remember
Marcel as a gangly 14 year-old zipping about on one of those flimsy French mopeds. He is portly
now, and seems to struggle as much as me to remember the past. His mother has arrived with
them. She is a small sparrow of a woman, yet at 89 her mind is as sharp as a tack. She adds
further detail of my stay to her husband's memories. They invite me to stay for the evening meal.
The kitchen in which we sit is the kitchen of an old couple; outdated furniture and utensils, the
griminess not seen by failing eyesight. We talk about the years, condensing major life events into
simple sentences to accommodate my French. They tell me they kept just enough vineyard to
produce wine for themselves. They sold most of their land as building plots for holiday homes for
the British and Dutch retirees who are moving to France en masse. M. Vignault explains that his
30-acre vineyard, which took three days to harvest by hand, can now be harvested in three hours.
The new machines pick the grapes by an ingenious combination of high-pressure air and
mechanized clippers. "Much has changed," he observes with a shrug of resignation. After
agreeing I won’t wait another 28 years to return, I say farewell.
M. Vignault drives me in his small car to the nearby town where I'm staying. Before going to
sleep, I describe the events and feelings of the day in my diary. Suddenly, as I write, I am
overcome by a wave of utter, desolate sadness. Sadness at the passage of time. Sadness at how old
my good-hearted hosts have become. Sadness at the passage of so many years of my own life.
Sadness to find myself 50. I weep and weep, unable to continue writing. Where did all that time
go? How is it possible for me to be cycling down the same roads, perhaps a third of my life gone
by, yet my inner sense of self not one jot older? Why am I no longer the 23-year-old on his bicycle,
headed for India? How does this happen?
The next day something inside has changed. The wish to retrace my steps no longer holds the
same interest as it did yesterday. I remember so little, anyway. And I am now a different person. I
have grown, changed, matured. Yesterday afternoon, before visiting the Vignaults, I stopped at a
tourism office. There I was amazed to see a map showing that one route of The Way of Santiago
de Compostella runs quite close to here. For some years this important pilgrimage route of
medieval Christianity has fascinated me. And so, halfway into my carefully planned journey, it
literally takes a new direction. I visit the monasteries and churches along The Way of Santiago de
Compostella. Sitting to meditate in places made sacred by centuries of prayer, I contemplate the
passage of time and ask for self-acceptance.
Cycling and introspection go well together; there are many hours to turn things over in my mind.
I feel the sorrow of the passing of certain things: the freedom to continue cycling as long as I care
to, the ability to take stairs three at a time, the absence of worldly responsibility. The treasures
that replace these losses are not as easy to define. Yet, like the road passing beneath me, they
support my progress forward. A rich plot of earth where the flower of love blossoms-- my family. A
certain steadiness of mind, a sensitivity to others I once lacked.
I would like to be able to tell you that the sadness has completely resolved itself. But you already
know that life doesn't fall into place that neatly. The self-acceptance I prayed for comes in fits
and starts. But it comes. Years from now perhaps I will sit on a doorstep shelling peas, and
someone who long ago was a guest of ours will arrive unexpectedly. I hope I will smile gently and
say, "I am Mr. Spencer."