The Walk to Barneville-Carteret

The course was good, things were plodding along with the sort of drab day to day certainty which - while reassuring at first - soon tends to end up with you wanting to throw something heavy at someone. A change is always welcome, and for me that change came in the way of an extremely overambitious undertaking - walking forty kilometers to the commune of Barneville-Carteret. 

Why this town and no other, you ask? Well, I looked at a map and tried to find things that were around 40km away and I couldn't find anything interesting except this place. Apart from that, there was a picture of a very old church from the twelfth century on the beach, and I immediately knew I wanted to see it. 

The walk itself was rather fun for the first 20 km. I started at 6 in the morning, and took a detailed set of roadmaps, but in fact all I ended up using was Google Maps on my phone. Very useful, that thing. The French countryside in the early morning (or indeed, at almost anytime when you can see it because there isn't any rain) is beautiful.

The next 10 km were a little harder than I'd expected, but after that it became really horrible because I'd hit the main highway by then and there really wasn't anything to see at all, except for the road and not really anywhere to sit either. And, being paranoid that I would die of the cold, I had taken more warm clothing than I'd needed, so my backpack was really heavy. 

As if this wasn't bad enough, I realised that even once I *got* to Barneville I'd have to walk around to see things! I never realised how dependent I was on the idea of a rickshaw: somebody who, for not too outrageous a sum of money, would take you places. Anyway, Barneville was practically deserted, but it's a good thing I went there because I managed to get a map and directions from the office of tourism. They gave me a map and told me how to go to Carteret. The walk would have been pleasant, if it wasn't for the feeling that my legs would fall off. I decided I'd walk up to the cape of Carteret, for no real reason.

On my way, though, I did run into a curious piece of history. I took a wrong road, and then tried to correct myself by taking a small by-lane Rue Franklin Bouillon. I paused for a minute to catch my breath when I noticed a plaque on the wall to my right. Figured it was Latin, and that was odd enough, so I clicked a picture of it, and of the largish house behind it. Googled when I got back, and found a rather interesting story: only one site online had anything to say about it.

The plaque reads: JOVEM OPTIMUM MAXIMUM ET DIANAM HABEAT IRATOS QUISQUIS HIC MINXERIT ANT CA­CA­VIT. Or in English, He who urinates or defecates here will incur the wrath of the great and mighty Jupiter and Diane.

  

Not an altogether strange message, but writing it in Latin is not exactly the most effective way of getting the idea across.

The Château, called the Château des Sirènes, was constructed by a painter, Adolphe Lalire who had visited Carteret in the late 1800s and fallen in love with it. Interestingly enough, he was called La Lyre, and he painted a lot of Mermaids (who are known to play the lyre to attract unwary sailors to their deaths). Another curious, though perhaps far fetched link is this: Nero was also famous for playing the Lyre while Rome burned. Interestingly, a similar plaque existed outside Nero's home in Rome. Make what you will of it.

The Cape itself was fantastic: I got a very good view of the islands of Jersey and Guernsey, as the sun was setting on them. There was a rather precarious path along the cape which was a little dangerous, but very beautiful. In all this walking, I'd forgotten all about the church that I'd set out to see, so it came as very pleasant surprise when I turned a corner and bang! there it was in front of me.

The entire walk along the cape was damn nice. Tiring as hell, though. The last (well, it was also the third) bus from Barneville back to Cherbourg was at 6 in the evening, so I decided to give myself one hour for the 2 km stretch. Made it just in time. There were three people in the bus: the driver, her grandson and me. I was so tired I slept through most of the journey. When I got off at the stop near the institute I was staying, I realised I hadn't eaten for nearly the whole day. Walked to McDonald's (yes, I know, horrible) and then walked back. A walk that would have otherwise taken me ten minutes took me over an hour. Interesting, the next few days it wasn't my legs that were complaining so much as my back. Note to self: never pack too many warm clothes.