Paris to the Pyrenees by David Downie

Maybe it is the bias of having done a major walk that makes this book so appealing, but I think it is more the refreshing take of a writer who wanders the the pilgrimage route of St James without a religious belief that most appeals to me.

Walking with his wife, Downie is skeptical and like my adventures - Full Circle Superior and Full Length Mississippi he is dealing with back pains and knees.

What I like is the freshness of his reflections like these:

"Before reaching the chateau we stopped for a snack on a panoramic bench near an alley of mossy, carefully clipped linden trees. I paused before sinking my teeth into a pear, removing the sticker that said "Chile." The baker had told us that the crust of the quiche we'd brought was made with Canadian flour, and that the bacon inside was from Hungary. The mineral water was Italian, the chocolate Swiss. I thought of the vaguely Japanese-Australian meal we'd enjoyed at the neo-Druidic-Buddhist Relais du Maconnais, and wondered just how notional was the Frenchness of French food and "French identity."

"I forced myself to admire the chateau and pronounce it exceptionally attractive. It was not "run down,' but atmospherically down at the heel."

"the monk had also said something that had made great sense to me, and lodged in myu brain's leathery convolutions. 'The only thing all pilgrims have in common is an interior necessity - I must go, I don't know why..."

It is the journey that counts and his insights are certainly different than many I might make, but that is what is intriguing, insightful, and often humorous like: 
“…and his description of how some clever local winemakers keep a special “Parker Barrel” of fruit forward wine to hoodwink the supposedly omniscient American critic Robert Parker, came as an entertaining surprise. As big as a barrel, and overflowing with self-confidence, Parker roamed the vineyards of the world, judging wines and making or breaking wineries.
“According to Romain, “Parker Barrel” wines are made for export to countries where they will please the infallible Parker and the palates that share his florid tastes. Essentially, they go to America, England, and Germany. The same chateau’s same vintages sold in France might be different, more nuanced and less oaky. ‘People drink Givry wines here and love them,’ Romain said good-naturedly. ‘They go home, they buy what they think are the same wines, and they say ‘Hmmm, why are they always better when you drink them on the spot?’ “

He wanders into churches and observes the obligatory historic buildings which serve as the signposts of the trek, but still maintains enough distance to write descriptions like this: "If a jury had to nominate castles for the Atmospheric Crumbled Ruin Award, Chateau de Montaigu would certainly be short-listed. A tower with gaping eyes for windows, arm-thick creepers dangling from it, shrubs sprouting at unlikely angles from moat and dungeon, hewn stone walls rising high above scented robinia trees, and fallen arches more dramatic than my own - such was the scene awaiting at Montaigu."

I found myself walking with them, enjoying the brief glimpses into the different personalities of husband and wife, and feeling the trail beneath my feet.  What more could you ask for?