AUVILLAR, rising above the banks of the Garonne, is used to walkers gathering by the Halle aux Grains before turning down the cobbles to the 13th century Eglise Saint Pierre.

In the main they are the modern day pilgrims on the St Jacques de Compastelle route to Spain – their ‘passports’ stamped at each historic church pause of the Saint’s bones.

These days they’re as likely to carry walking poles as staffs, and heavy backpacks cling and sway aggressively as they power on.

One often sees them sitting on the stone surrounds of the circular grain market, gazing at the columbaged, colonnaded medieval houses.

But their rest is short in their quest to cover the kilometers before nightfall. Our roads are less kind to today’s pilgrims, and small, white vans pack a greater killer punch than an ambling mule.

They are but one strand in all that passes through here, has passed through here, entering under the clock tower.

The history of Auvillar is the story of us all – I say us, for though not French, we share in different ways the conquests and the tides of change that have swept through the centuries.

First recognised as a Gallo-Romane city, its commanding height on a rocky outcrop provided the Romans with the perfect fortified settlement from which to rule.

The Normans brutally invaded; religious wars saw its people murdered and evicted; aristocratic families fought over its ownership and the tolling of the great bells of Saint Pierre rang indifferently to all.

I’ve written many times here how I feel the veil between past and present to be especially thin in this area.

Like Venice, one walks on cobblestones and frequently turn, convinced another step is following behind. Or sometimes beside, and, on rare, strange days, one hears the rubbing of a leather bridle and the dragged clop of a hoof.

Sometimes one gets the scent of an ancient perfume or the touch of a rough skirt against one’s leg.

Fanciful perhaps, or perhaps not.

If, like me, given to such thoughts or perceptions, then we are all ghosts moving briefly through a stone landscape that may or may not capture us too, to throw out at another time.

Auvillar is special in its silence. Even at the height of summer, tourists are sparse and it only truly comes alive when festivals make it so.

No restaurants circle the heart; no cafes invite one to linger. And yet its stones and seemingly permanently shuttered houses pull one to sit, stay awhile, listen.

The day after watching, hour after hour, Trump’s inauguration in all its awful inevitability, I found myself in the heart of Auvillar.

A Dutch friend who lives between here and America had told me there was to be a women’s march and would I be interested.

On many, many levels, of course I would, but always, above all, as an observer.

And so I came to the worn steps and alleys, standing against a wall waiting for those who might come to protest something happening so, so far away.

In dribs and drabs they arrived: Not just women – men and children, too – in all, as they shuffled about, perhaps 35 or a few more.

There were local Americans, a few Dutch, some English but mainly French.

Like the pilgrims, they were dressed for walking: backpacks, the odd stick, hats and gloves. The gathering was so small; many introduced themselves and waited for the signal to march off around the hilly enclave.

I watched them leave but having no desire to trudge up hill and down dale I took myself to a newly opened art gallery and salon serving teas and coffee.

Inside a once merchant’s house, with beams soaring upwards, I heard the aspirations of the young owner whose ‘companion’ had created the vibrant works on the wall.

He lit a fire in a fireplace fit for a castle as I sat on a leopard print chaise.

My hot chocolate was thick and organic and he talked of his hopes and dreams in his rented walls while agreeing it was…hard.

Around us were his creations from driftwood at prices perhaps too high to justify, but beautiful.

Tentatively, I said it would always be hard in Auvillar for people like him with so few visitors to discover his worth in our backwater.

Smiling, he nodded acceptance but pointed to an insulin pack on his waist and told me the ‘medical’ story of his life.

"All this," – he indicated "Is my joy."

He disappeared upstairs to where his companion was painting.

I sat a little longer as down the hill the march continued. Outside nothing moved. No sounds disturbed my reverie beside the blazing fire.

Later I discovered the walkers had been treated to hot drinks and cakes mid-way back up the hill from a Dutch resident.

My friend was upset that there had been no real political talk on the protest.

It didn’t matter. The protest had been made. Another procession had made its way through time. Another moment had been added to Auvillar’s history.

More ghosts to come had faded into the stonewalls.

Someone else will hear our footsteps.