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Updated: May 28, 2025
After lunching in the midst of a noisy and vulgar throng, I regained the open country, with the conviction that, should I ever decide to start off upon a serious pilgrimage, the road to Verdelais would not be the one that I would take. I now turned down towards the valley through the vines, the inevitable vines, and was soon on the banks of the Garonne.
However this may be, after the first glance at Verdelais I wished I had not come. There was no quiet corner here where a wayfarer could sit and refresh himself; in this hurly-burly of eager hunger, and with this infernal clatter of tongues, repose was impossible.
When I learnt that they were pilgrims on their way to Verdelais, I thought that I might do worse than be a pilgrim, too. I therefore went with the stream, which soon turned up the flanks of the vine-clad hills. Thus I found myself about noon in a small village, seemingly composed of one wide street lined on both sides with cafes and restaurants.
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