TRAMPING WITH CHAMP

17. TRAMPING WITH CHAMP (1983)

Over the years I’ve been aware of the growing influence......spell that the land has on me. In fact, it’s a veritable conversation, a dialogue with the spirit of the land that drones away in my head as I experience the richness of our Australian landscape.



So different from Mittagong- Marcellin country.

  It’s been a long journey, probably starting as an adolescent, growing up in Mittagong and gradually falling in love with the countryside, the seasons, the birds, bush walks, the moon rising and more.  Just how much importance it assumed in my spirituality was explicitly expressed after some thirteen years ‘deprivation’, while working in the islands.

And so in 1988, after tirteen years teaching in Solomon Islands and Papua New Guinea, there was a homecoming and reunion on my return. From then, I practically “haunted” this spiritual heartland around Mittagong.  Every retreat, many visits and then several years, using every opportunity to green the landscape with eucalypts was part of  a continuing love affair. More dramatically, my passion for this “birthright” of land, fuelled my protest to oppose the sale of sixty sacred acres in the mid nineties. Thankfully, with some strong allies, I was able to outmanoeuvre the opposition and ward off disaster!

This same power of the land and its spirit pushed me into a wonderful pilgrimage around Champagnat country, south of Lyons, back in 1983 when our renewal group of Brothers spent two weeks in our cradle , while residing in Marcellin’s own masterpiece of construction, the “Hermitage”.As a Marist his story was part of the warp and woof of our spirituality. While his story was certainly inspiring he did seem a little forbidding. How account for a struggling country boy, a drop out at that, having the fire and dynamism to found a congregation of teaching Brothers wo now are active in near eighty countries? 



LaValla where Marcellin spent mot of his life working

 For me Marcellin himself had undergone a rejuventation, even rehabilitation as I came to encounter the ‘real ’man. The Marcellin who walked out of the pages of Jean Baptiste’s  classic biography from the 1860s was a little “bipolar” for me. On one side, he was that dynamic, attractive and even humorous character. On the other he appeared ascetic, severe, demanding and somewhat unappealing. But since Vatican 2 ,when the  Church Fathers, the Bishops urged us to go back to our sources, there had been a certain rehabilitation and the excesses of hagiography were being scraped away to reveal a certain masterpiece beneath. This whole process had gathered a certain momentum and very different literature was emerging where the human qualities asserted themselves. His family rounded off so many of his attractive qualities and we understood them and him in their own times. We were lucky to sit at the feet of Brother Balko, who was a front runner in research. More so, we captured the fire of Br Gabriel Michel who, as a man of the same soil and country, clearly exuded so much of the Marcellin spirit and story. It was a great rediscovery and being among the fields, and hills and tumbling creeks gave it extra dimension. And then to be living in his own monument, with his bedroom just down the passage and with his spirit wafting around, there blossomed a great deputing of relationship and understanding.



Moving up the range

 The coach tours around, to Marhles,  La Valla, to Le Puy, St. Chamond, Bourg Argental were very enlightening and uplifting as again I touched the man and his story.  But I really needed to tramp the countryside with Marcellin, to marvel at the blossoms, the bird song and the sweeping views. It was a real urge within, a fire. And so I made plans to spend the whole day in his company as I covered so many of the places  in that wide valley, still marked with his presence as a young curate and later as the founder of village schools. My friend Paul had also caught the fire but we agreed to go separately and meet at some holy meeting place. Where? Well, after a certain discernment we agreed that a 3 pm meeting at the tavern in Le Bessat would be ideal. From that lofty place we could then plunge down the mountain back home, through La Valla and onto the Hermitage in good spirits.

With a full pack, which included some books, maps and a healthy lunch I set out from the Hermitage around 9 am. First, it was along the Gier river which was gurgling quite merrily and could have told so many stories of those sterling times when that bunch of young 'monks', inspired by this unstoppable young priest practically tore down a mountain to plant this little paradise in the valley. Since his time of course a dam reared up the valley, threatening instant destruction and tragedy if it cracked!  Frighteningly, just below the dam wall was a horror residence. A large ramshackle house with some strange dwellers, it was secured with a two metre high fence. Raging along the fence were a pack of black Dobermans who struck fear with their strange barking, glaring eyes and slavering mouths.  Even the Gendarmeie would have their problems penetrating this den of vice. I was relieved to climb up to the road and stride along the lake. It was a delight to walk along a beautiful stretch of water, with some spring blossom lighting up the hills on the other side. I was bracing for a stiff climb.

I desisted taking a left, over a significant bridge and up to the “cradle of the institute”, La Valla,  as we’d already made a pilgrimage there. That bridge had a story to tell.  Here a quite momentous meeting took place. Having sought out his first “target” to lead the first bunch of young men in his project, Marcellin, chatting with Jean-Marie Granjon after Mass, had organised a critical meeting on that bridge, not far away from Chomeol where Jean-Marie worked. In some ways it was symbolic, as in “burning your bridges”. With that empowering encouragement from the young firebrand priest, Jean-Marie rose to the challenge. He would throw in his lot with Marcellin.



Les Maisonettes- home of Br. Francois family

 It was significant to me in quite another way. In the summer of 1993 when I spent a month there I had walked up from L’Hermitage and needed a little spell before I tackled the steeper climb into LaValla. About to sit down on the bridge, I took a quick glance to check, as I would do in the bush in Australia, where snakes are numerous and deadly. I spotted a viper snuggled in between the layers of rocks. I decamped. Later, I shared my experience with a local brother, who regaled me with a tragic story. Apparently, a visiting priest was bitten by such a viper. In great panic he had raced back for help. (He wasn’t acquainted with the need to be more passive to stop the venom from pumping through the veins and arteries). Sadly, he died. Thanks Mary for protecting me!!!

I had a real spring in my step by now and was fair burning up the unpaved road. A steep valley plunged down to the Ban river before rearing up to the village, where Marcelling gathered his first community and trained them as catechists and teachers. I imaged him tumbling down with a young Brother in tow as he set out to care for the sick. I recalled the story of Jean Berne whose mother died tragically and the young boy was “adopted” by Marcellin.



With Seamus my Irish mate

  Shortly enough I was passing by Les Maisonettes which was another sacred spot, the home of the Rivats, Young Gabriel, only nine, joined the young Brothers, became a “son” of Marcellin, and  later his ‘right arm’ and the first Superior General. About an hour later, road ended near Laval as the range took a steep pitch. Maybe two hours had passed. I found tracks leading up to Barbaranche, a saddle on top. It was a strenuous pull up along the tracks and negotiating a few fences. While sunny, it was not hot and a breeze helped cool the brow. It was heart-pumping stuff but finally I made it onto a level paddock and decided to take a break. I turned about and was lifted by a glorious view down the valley, with scattered farms, patches of woods and villages in the valleys. And then over the town of  St. Chamond and to ranges and a great sweep of the country. I selected a cosy spot, out of the breeze and with untrammelled views. I enjoyed that lunch so much, relishing these thick sandwiches, pouring myself some red wine into a glass that I insisted on bringing, while musing and playing out some stories and scenes from our heritage. Way over, I spotted small town-village of Valfluery. It’s a place of Marian pilgrimage with its medieval statue of Mother and Child. I recalled that Mrs. Rivat, with three sons fighting in the Napoleonic wars, had tramped all the way, with her young Francois, to consecrate him to Mary and pray her sons return safely.

                                                                                                                         

After that climb it would be so easy from there on. A little siesta in the sun would be acceptable! Saddling up again with a lighter pack and chomping on an apple I set out to find the road to Le Bessat.  No problem. It would be a clear run along the top of the range. Not really. I all but got devoured by some “hound of the Baskervilles.

There were some scattered farm houses and up to my right with commanding views down the valley, a few wealthy people had built their “MacChateaux”. Passing one of them my blood curdled as I heard this furious backing and down this long, white drive a huge German Shepherd dog was racing, ready to attack and eliminate any would-be interloper. The situation was grave, even life threatening! No heroics sprang to mind. I didn’t even reach for my trusty Swiss knife. I suddenly, panic- frighted PRAYED. I swear the mastiff was within centimetres when I blurted “Marcellin save me!” It worked, miraculously. Like St Francis and the wolf, this hound stopped in its tracks, looked perplexed for a moment, stood uncertain and then turned and loped back to its kennel and a food bowl with at least a box of Chum. My devotion to the founder took a leap.

It was well after 3pm when I arrived at the tavern. I was ready for a beer or two and a good chat with Paul to share our adventures. I looked around . No Paul. The few locals around the table gave me a quick glance and then ignored me. Damn! Where was he? Surely he could have waited a bit.  But he hadn’t and so I had to drink alone and be thankful.



Bacl at Hermitage in 2008



Downhill wasn’t as easy as I expected. In fact it was positively dangerous. On those steep slopes the tracks had been scoured and ripped. They were practically creek beds with loose stones ready to send you sprawling with a twisted ankle. Even finding some grass verge was not easy. It was safer if longer to take the road and cope with some traffic. So, down through Luzernod where I ‘met’ the two Audras brothers who were the first to join Granjon, leaving the farm depleted of labour, but eventually, their faith-filled parents succumbing to Marcellin’s ‘blandishments’.  I was still enjoying my game of trying to spot Marcellin popping into those farmhouses as I moved further down through La Valla without tarrying. The legs were a bit rubbery by this time and so I kept on. Over ‘that’ bridge and along the lake before confronting the terror dogs again. Eventually I struggled along the tamed Gier and back home. It had taken over seven hours. I felt quite exhausted but jubilant.

More than any reward it had given me rich insights into that farm boy from Le Rosey, which was just up and over the range. The land had shared its secrets. The people who sprang from these parts were marked by the hills, the valleys, the woods, the soil. A hardy people.

I had more closely walked in the shoes of the young priest whose spirit had encircled the earth.