LIVE from the Camino On My Way to the End of the World :]

[sunflowerfunk]

Hello everyone !
I've been posting these to my blog, https://pocket-full-of-sea-glass.blog/, but I also wanted to put them here in case anyone was interested :]
I'm walking from Geneva to Finisterre, and this is my journey! I hope you enjoy - they are rather long <33

 

[sunflowerfunk]

Step One : The Plan

-The Why?-

Around six months ago, in early February, I was planning a trip (mostly) throughout the Mediterranean; I had figured out a route that spanned around fifteen countries, and was almost entirely sure I could make enough money before I left to make it reality. I would begin in the west of France and diverge from the route every other week in order to hike trails that were open year round – backpacking the rest of the way, finally ending in Montenegro three months later.

Then my father made the mistake of Mentioning something.

The key problem with this is that my father and I are far more alike than any of my younger selves could have ever imagined, so when he leans on the kitchen counter and says something along the lines of ,”that’s all well and good, but if you’re planning to diverge so much why not try a longer walk like say – the Camino ?”, I never stood a chance.

Now, to give him credit, he was merely bringing up – as an example – a trek he had heard of from just beyond the Pyrenees to Santiago de Compostela. What he did not think about was the fact that I am stubborn to the point of stupidity and have a habit of becoming extremely focused on certain ideas then deliberately making things harder for myself.

So from that afternoon on, I became obsessed. Every spare minute was spent reading about the history, the why. I was falling in love with lands I had never entered. The further my ‘research’ went, the longer my plans became. Gone were thoughts of Italy and Greece, replaced instead by the concept of walking for months at a time. Gradually, my route grew, creeping steadily past Saint-Jean-Pied de Port to Le Puy. I stumbled across a blog detailing one mans’ travels from Geneva to Finisterre. Two birds with one stone – both ends of my walk extended. A month turned to two, two to four.

Finally, I had my route down. I would follow the GR65 from Geneva, Switzerland across the entirety of France and Spain, ending at the ‘end of the world’ in Finisterre. Now all that was left was to figure out gear and – wait what do you mean there’s alternative variants to the routes ??

Out came the notes again as I poured over my new potentials. After a week of deliberation I would land on a 2200km hike that diverted away from the crowds, into the quiet I so desperately craved. It was a mismatch of Caminos, paper-mached together, and it was perfect. I was finally decided.


-The Route-

Via Gebennensis
The start of my adventure remained in Geneva (Genf), Switzerland, at the 13th Century Basilica of Notre-Dame. Here is where I would retrieve my pilgrims credential, which would allow me access to cheaper food and accomodation along my journey. I would follow the Via Gebennensis for a little over 350km, crossing into and meandering through rural southern France until I reached the town of Le Puy-en-Velay.

Via Podiensis
From Le Puy I would transfer across to the Via Podiensis, which would send me progressively west over the course of 750km until I arrived in Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port, in the shadow of the Pyrenees. In this stretch the volume of pilgrims would increase – the Via Gebennensis, whilst slowly becoming more popular, is still largely a ‘quiet’ Camino experience, whereas the Podiensis has had an uptick in hikers since Covid began declining. However, this increase would be nothing compared to what was to come.

Camino Frances / “The French Way”
The Camino Frances – easily the most popular of all the ways to Santiago. 414,340 pilgrims completed the journey in 2022 alone, and the number continues to grow. Most attribute the appeal to the sheer number of other hikers with whom to create bonds with, becoming a “family”. It is widely considered the most social route, and has a wealth of larger towns and cities along the way. All things considered, it was the part I was most apprehensive about.

Camino San Salvador
Good for me, I had options. I would not stick to the Frances, only crossing 475km of the total 800km, making my way from Saint-Jean at the edge of France to Leon at the northwestern corner of the Central Meseta. Here, I would change directions, heading north on the Camino de San Salvador for 120km until I reached Oviedo, the capital of the Asturias region.

Camino Primitivo / “The Original Way”
Once I reached Oviedo, I was in for a treat. I would be following the Camino Primitivo until I came to Melide, where the Frances and Primitivo merge a few days walk from Santiago de Compostela. Nicknamed the ‘original’ way, the Primitivo is a 320km hike up and down the Cantabrian Mountains and through the hills of Galicia, and one of the most isolated routes across Spain. Only roughly 8,000 people per year choose to walk it, and I. Could. Not. Wait. Quiet, seperate, windy and a little dangerous – far more interesting to me than the Frances.

Camino Finisterre (feat. Muxia)
But this would not be the last of my adventure! Santiago was not my final goal – at least not the first time. I wanted to reach what was once called ‘the end of the world’; Finisterre. I would complete the loop while I was at it – from Santiago to Muxia, then Muxia to Finisterre. This would emotionally be the end of my Camino (although I haven’t made it yet so we’ll see), but not quitephysically. From Finisterre I would walk back to Santiago, where I would then fly back to Germany.


-The Preparation-

I would be gone four months, alone in the urban wilderness with only one supermarket a day (gasp!). I’d be averaging around 20-30km a day, from now till Christmas – how would I manage ??? Well, only an absolute moron would undertake a trek of this magnitude with this much sustained effort without any form of training, without so much as doing a practice hike with the very bag he’d be walking with.

So ,,,,,,,,

Onto gear !


-The Gear-

Now, it wasn’t exactly fair to say I’d done z e r opreperation whatsoever ; I’d grown up camping and hiking – granted, never for four months at a time – but there’s a first time for everything! I had experience with First Aid, and I knew how to cook. I was not entirelyhelpless, just maybe a little blinded by excitement.

To add to the adventure (and save a bit of money), I’d long since made the decision to split my nights between standard accomodation and camping. For pilgrims, ‘normal’ accomodation refers to gîtes (French) or alberques (Spanish). These were essentially subsidised hostel rooms that averaged between €10 and €20 a night, made especially for pilgrims to stay in a maximum of one night. I would attempt to sleep in gîtes at least twice a week – enough to be able to wash my clothes every three days – the rest of the time I would camp.

My first port of call, then, was a tent. I had with me a small one that weighed a little over a kilo and was, in the name of blending in – wild camping was not technicallylegal – bright fucking red! It stayed strapped to my bag, along with my sleeping mat and towel. For food I had with me a simple pot cooker – sans lighter. And gas. Both of those I’d figure out later. I also brought a lightweight hammock for dry nights, as well as a raincoat for less dry ones. My sleeping bag was thin plastic and left a little to be desired, but it was autumn yet, and I had thermals and fleece for when winter arrived. Hopefully it would hold me over until December.

Now all that remained was to organise my travel and be on my way :]

 

[sunflowerfunk]

Step Two : Getting There

-The Starting Point-

Technically, my trip began in Brisbane on a hot June morning, where I sat nervous and sweating in the airport gate. Or maybe it began even earlier, the first day I learnt of the Camino. Depends on how specific and/or philosophical you want to get I suppose, but for all intents and purposes, we’ll say I started in Germany.

Finding a way to Geneva was far easier than I anticipated – public transport in Europe is endlessly better than its Australian counterpart. I booked three buses for €118 that would take me 1200km (just over half of how far I would walk over the following months) from Flensburg to Geneva across the span of twenty six hours, and before I knew it I was off.



-Bus One [N50 to Hamburg]-

My first ride of the day was a short two and a half hour connection between Flensburg and Hamburg. I was seen off by my grandparents and family friends, who waved very adorably at the bus as we pulled away from the curb. Then I turned to face an almost empty top deck and watched the trees whizz past the window as I listened to songs I loved as a child and realised – it was all beginning!!

Finally! I was alone, r e a l l y alone. I was entirely dependent on myself, responsible for my own wellbeing and safety. Thank. Fucking. God. I was grateful for my family and their care, but I had been itching for independence since I could remember. I had chased this my entire childhood, every birthday a countdown. I couldn’t wait to see who I was, to finally be able to reassess myself in peace, away from the distraction and noise that is Other People.

I was on my way !!

And so the first bus passed by quickly, a mesh of daydreaming and letter writing and quiet. Hamburg ZOB arrived before I even really processed leaving – my pack and I settled on the dirty pavement. Together, we waited out the three hour stopover, eating Brötchen and apples and inhaling the sweet sweet smell of cigarettes and piss. Oh city life <33

Leaving Hamburg


-Bus Two [N33 to Frankfurt]-

Immediately upon boarding the second bus, I realised this would be a little different. It is important to note that I got on this Flixbus not five days since getting off my last one, which lasted forty six hours and left me (somehow) jet-lagged. After that, I assumed this would be nothing. I was wrong. Something about it kept me needling, never a comfortable position.

The scenery made up for it though ; solar farms and wind turbines in the middle of the night lighting up in brilliant eerie reds is something to behold. I scribbled the dark away, paragraphs and phrases slowly filling my notebook. Lately, I’ve had my beloved Australian heat running rings around my head, and more often than not my scrawling gives way to eucalyptus leaves and salt spray. I was craving sunburn – the forecast for Geneva had a heat advisory and a temperature of 35*+ every day for the next week. I couldn’t wait.

As the stops trawled by, I was accompanied by a rotating cast of men who (unintentionally) frightened me, and by the time I arrived in Frankfurt at 3.25am, I had yet to sleep. For the second time, my bag and I took a place on the crusty concrete, and waited.

Here the excitement truly kicked in, as I laid with my back against cold ground and my head atop my pack, as I surely would so many more times over the coming months. I had thought about this for so long – actually starting seemed bizarre. But for now it was late, and drunk men were everywhere – not exactly a perfect napping environment. I spent the next five hours writing and tinkering with playlists; waiting for the dawn to break.



-Bus Three [N122 to Geneva]-

At 8.15am, my final bus arrives and what a godsend it is. No double deck to be seen, a functional toilet (with toilet paper),,,, such luxuries cannot be overstated! Better yet still, I had no seat-mate – I could sleep!

And for the next six odd hours, sleep I did. Thankfully, no-one sat in the seat next to me so I was free to contort and stretch to my hearts content, switching around every other thirty minutes. Then 2.55pm rolled around and I opened my eyes to a borderline caricature of what I thought Switzerland would be like; gargantuan rolling green pastures sloping up to a mountain spotted with cows and snow. A small red-roofed village – complete with babbling brook – idles lazily in the shade, and the church cross catches fire in the afternoon light.

More shaky bus views of Switzerland :]
And then we turned the corner to the Border Security checkpoint.

Put a bit of a damper on. my mood if I’m honest, but hey! All standard, they ask for passports, etc. etc. I hand them my Australian one because if they ask for anything else it’ll match my name. We go through the mini questionnaire and I explain that I’m only here a day, to begin the Camino – as far as border security and I are concerned, I’m nailing it.

“So where is your entry stamp into Europe?” Oh fu c k.

Here is my proclamation of love for Switzerland’s military; not only did they play the How to Train Your Dragon score at the Edinburgh Tattoo but when I hand this poor man my German passport with an entry stamp to Europe but also a different name, different sex, generally different information with absolutely no other documents to back it up and went in for my first apology, he simply held up a hand and said, “they are both valid at a glance, and so it is clear to me what has happened here. Germans.”

God I love the Swiss.

And so the bus drove on, past winding rivers and farmland, old white buildings and city outskirts, until finally I glanced up from my ramblings and saw them. The Swiss Alps. They towered above the land, formidable silhouettes of craggy rock. As Geneva slowly came into view, it seemed to cower beneath them.

The closer we got, the more vibrant everything became. The colours seemed brighter somehow, the wind stronger. People were crowded by the water, flags hung from rafters.

The famous,, waterspout?
It hit me then that I had n o fucking cl u e what I was doing. Walking ?? For months at a time ?? Was I nuts ?? Why the hell did I not go with Greece ??

And then, joltily, the crackling intercom came to life, and my twenty six hours were up. I took my pack for the last time, and turned towards the bustling city. I had arrived :]

 

[sunflowerfunk]

Step Three : Walking

-Geneva-

The first thing to note is that a Switzerland 35* and an Australian 35* are not the same thing even slightly. It had become a common thing for me to realise as I travelled to marvel at the difference in temperature – a Washington 17* is also worlds apart from an Australian 17*, further even still from a German 17*. Evidently, I still couldn’t believe some places were not in the tropics.

It was muggy, yes, but it felt like a 28* at most. All that true blue blood coursing through my veins was finally coming in handy – the heat would not cause me as many problems as I thought.

If you’re getting tired of my constant romanticising paired with a cocky and vaguely grating authorial voice don’t fret !! It calms down significantly about five minutes after I start walking <33

So there I was – standing next to the bus bay with no idea how to proceed. I had my pack on the ground and a little green bag full of Things I had deemed necessary to have on the bus (spoilers : they were not), so the natural first step was to repack. On the ground. In the middle of the bus station. For not really any reason at all other than it seemed practical and my hands needed a task.

By the time I had finished, I had a plan forming. I needed three things before I could begin;

1. A pilgrim passport (‘credential’),

2. Food for the rest of the night and tomorrow, as I’d be crossing into France and could not reliably guarantee anything would be open on a Monday, and,

3. Water. Pretty self explanatory.

I figured the Basilica (church) was only an eight minute walk – I could go for the passport first to make sure I was prepared, and then I could figure out where to shop. So I wandered for a little over five minutes before I found it and – it was shut. Fuck! Now, a better man who was more prepared would have probably invested in a good nights sleep and returned in the morning – but I was no such guy. I was impatient and anxious about money <33

So I walked a little further and found a co-op, bought myself some warm food and water and found a little nook in which I could wedge myself and reconfigure the contents of my bag which was already proving heavy. Sure, a piece of pizza, two litres of water, some milk and some Kinder chocolate cost me almost thirty dollars but when in Switzerland,,, (There was a reason I was trying to only stay for an afternoon)!

I managed to fit (almost) everything in, and carried the rest in my little green bag. From there, I walked back to the church, realised it was open (score!), went up to the entrance, clocked that it was because they were having mass (no!) and when someone looked like they were coming over to ask me something I did the intelligent thing and ran away.

The shells point the way!
And there began my Via Gebennensis – I spotted the first scallop shell during my daring escape from what was arguably the most important thing I needed. You win some, you lose some. I was already planning to spend tonight and the next night outside, so I might as well pick up the pass in whatever town next had it instead.

I was definitely having an awkward start – my pack felt lopsided and I was 90% sure my water bladder would leak and ruin everything. I would lose the shells every few turns, and would have to backtrack or pull out my phone. My green bag was too heavy and kept clanging against my sides, and somehow my shoes felt too big ? I was gross and sweaty and tired and confused : the perfect recipe for an adventure :]

And so does the floor?
After an hour or so, it started to make sense. I got rid of a few extra things, managed to secure my green bag to the side of my pack so all I had to carry was a water bottle, and bit by bit I started to ease into the walk. I was passing by beautiful architecture at nearly every corner, and people were singing in the streets – I was smiling more than anyone dripping in sweat should ever be.

St. Pierre’s Cathedral

-Carouge-

After two hours of wandering, I finally left the inner city behind. It was around 8.00pm, and the sun was setting when I made it into Carouge, roughly 3km from where I left off. Not exactly the pace I was hoping for but I was blaming it on the fact that I was learning <33

Crossing the bridge into Carouge
The sunset was beautiful, lighting up the mountains and church spires from all around. I was once again incredibly happy – although by now I was starting to curse my shoes, wishing I could simply walk barefoot through the city without such strange looks. I vowed to take them off the minute I could – I would walk barefoot as much as possible.

Crows flying over the river
Even with my visceral hatred for shoes, I made good time in Carouge. Within an hour I had made it another three kilometres, having only gotten lost twice. My reward was a walkable street absolutely covered in colourful flags. Old couples were laughing, eating ice cream and fanning one another in the heat, and a group of university students were sitting with their legs in the fountain.

Bunting :]
It was all very cute and boosted my spirits immensely, and I was confident as I made my way to Saconnex :]


-Saconnex-

I should not have been. Here is where everything starts to go a little wrong, and I have my first Camino mishap. And – my first dog.

The first ten minutes of the Saconnex stage are simple; you follow a sweet gravel path between tall hedges until you come to a small stream, which you cross, then follow directly up. Here, you are greeted with a crossroads. Now, up until this point, signage has been clear and regular. Sometimes it’s the scallop shell, sometimes it’s a small green square on a yellow arrow and sometimes, it happens to be a little man with a walking stick pointing the way. At the crossroads, there are two signs. One is a small green square, and one is a little man who is walking incredibly confidently in the exact opposite direction. The green path is the only path leading up to this point – why the fuck are there two directions.

Regardless, I take the green square route, figuring su r e l y that must be the right way. I follow it for 450m and nothing. No more signs, no indication of direction, nothing. And so I second guess, backtrack. I walk back, follow the little man. And the little man ? L i e s to me.

The little man leads me to a roundabout that goes nowhere and then tells me the right way w a s the way I came, but not to worry because it’s only a full kilometre away now! And so I trudge back, only to find my next green square not 50m from where I gave up. Bah !!!

But it’s okay, because after that next green square, all signs disappear completely. I walk for ten minutes without seeing anything, consulting my guidebook as I go – which tells me to look out for a well ?? – and struggling. At this point it’s 9.30pm, pitch black, and I am exhausted. I’m wandering streets of a village that may or may not be Saconnex, and all I know is that there are no places to sleep near me at all, so I couldn’t stop even if I wanted to.

Eventually the guidebook leads me to a gravel path that goes directly into the darkness through fields of shoulder-high grass. I make it maybe three minutes before turning around – over my cold dead body will I walk through that at night, and I knew I made the right call when I heard the barking and snarling start. Absolutely not a fucking chance thankyou!!!

At this point I was really doing it tough, and for the first time, I wanted to give up. This was all very overwhelming, and I couldn’t speak the language or read any signs, and it was n i g h t and I didn’t know why I was being so stubborn and I was spiralling Fast.

And then the second dog started growling and I snapped out of it instantaneously and just picked a direction and started walking. Turns out I would rather sleep in a ditch than be near a dog I can’t see. Eventually I started recognising waymarkers the guidebook had mentioned – tall stone crosses and large roundabouts – and knew I was on the right track. Even after double checking (I was), neither the green square or the little man reappeared.


-Compesières-

By the time I arrived in Compesières, I had walked 11km in four hours, and ended up only 8km away from where I started. I was shattered, and when I finally saw a bench next to the church cemetery, I almost melted.

I come at you live now, laying on said bench, looking over all the corpses I’ll bunk with tonight. It’s warm, and through a technicality I’m sleeping under the stars like I wanted – I can see them through the leaves whenever the wind moves them aside. Geneva glimmers in the distance, and the cars are starting to slow. Tomorrow, I will cross the border into France. Until then? I’ll rest :]

---

Day 0 – 20th August

Geneva to Compesières

11.1km

~ 11.1km total

€13.60

~ €13.60 total

 

[sunflowerfunk]

Day 1 : French Water Fountains and Camino Angels

-Compesières-

Rest was a strong word. I woke once to see a face in the trees opposite me, but evidently looked away at the perfect moment when what I can only describe as a Creature came bounding on out and ran directly at the tree I was under and vanished. The face was gone – must’ve been leaves. Then I woke up again as the sun rose to find that there wasn’t a tree opposite me, and so it must have actually been a man just watching. Try going to sleep after realising that: not much bloody fun!

Anyway, after much trial and error and thinking a towel would be as functional as a sleeping bag, I eventually slept around six hours. At 8.00am I woke up properly, repacked my bag and got as ready as I could when you’re sleeping on a bench between a church an a main road, then got onto my daily chores. So far I had only one : translate the goddamn guidebook. As I’d learnt attempting to enter/leave Saconnex last night, relying on a guidebook I could sometimes half understand was not going to work. So, at each stop, I would sit down and translate as much as I could, then google would help me with the rest. That way (hopefully) I would stop getting so lost and befuddled!

My bed for the night
As I sat down and began translating, I saw my first pilgrim! We both had red backpacks (though his was not even close to as overflowing as mine was), and he also seemed confused which gave me hope. He disappeared around the corner, and soon I was ready to follow – after I had filled up my water in the graveyard, naturally.

I hadn’t realised last night how close I was to the border – I crossed it within a half hour. I was in France !! As Switzerland wished me ‘byebye’, I crossed the road and made my way uphill.

The French border!
I quickly realised the heat on its own was not a large problem, but the heat paired with my own unfitness ?? I was drenched. Never in my life have I sweat so much I could wring my shirt out I need everyone to understand how disgusting I felt. Not to be helped by the next two pilgrims I wandered on past, who were leapfrogging me every thirty minutes; both cool calm and collected while I staggered on behind.


–Neydens–

After another hour, I reached Neydens. I was parched, and needed the bathroom, badly. Although I had ended up having to piss in some fields behind the church last night, I was really hoping to not have to repeat the experience. The church seemed to be shut, and I couldn’t locate the water fountain or toilets. In a genius move on my part, I pushed on. Maybe two kilometres later I realised just how terrible of an idea that was.

I had gotten lost (again), and now had to backtrack and climb nearly 300m to get to Verrieres. Without water. Wuh oh !! About 3/4 of the way to the top, a Godsend appeared. A small church, dedicated to pilgrims of the Way – complete with altar, four chairs and a minuscule rosary drawer. A woman (presumably Mary), looked down on me in colourful glass, and there was an open book filled with messages of pilgrims past. Including one from today, from the only two pilgrims I had seen this far (the leapfrogging couple). Heiße, Heiße, Heiße! Fucking Germans !!!

I did immediately feel better given that Germans are far too into being Sportlich, and proceeded to piss n o t behind a church, but rather in some woods nearby. It was almost degrading how fast my brain had switched into caveman mode. But! I then washed my hands and took off my boots to air out my stinking feet.

I stretched out on the cool pavement, charged my phone a little so I could continue listening to music, and closed my eyes.

If it were later in the day, I would’ve spent the night!
Two hours later, I woke up. I felt fresh, and relaxed, and dry and – how are there more Germans? She sat down next to me, and we talked for awhile. She was from Berlin, and was making the trek to Santiago as well, although she didn’t know if she had enough time to get to Finisterre. Being the first human I had spoken to in almost three days, I got exhausted quickly, and soon I had packed up my things and continued wandering – after a quick ‘Bon Chemin’!


-Verreries-

Reaching the entry to the town took only another few minutes, where I then had my second decision to make. Usually, churches and cemeteries were almost guaranteed to have a potable water source, and the pilgrims church did not. Verrieres was technically a ‘village’ of Neydens, and so did not have it’s own church. The next closest water fountain would be one town over, a two kilometre round trip. After a bit of internal debate, I decided two kilometres would be well worth the water, and turned directly away from the scallop shells.

On the way to the next town :]
Of course, when I arrived the fountain was bone dry with not a soul in sight to ask for help. Shit! By the time I had returned to Verreries, I was really worried. I hadn’t drunk anything since leaving Neydens, and I honestly thought of turning around and walking back down purely to look a bit better for the fountain. I hazarded against that though, and continued to follow the shells.

At the top of a windy stretch of road, in the middle of a rose garden, I met my first Camino angel. He was jogging, and noticed my empty water bottle – and led me to a small tap I had walked past not two minutes ago.

“This is the last one for three kilometres!” He said, and I almost cried.

He waved off all thanks and wished me Bon Chemin, then off he ran.

It was here that I met my German friend from earlier, as she rounded the corner and joked that I really had not made it far at all. As she filled her bottle, I became aware that something in my bag had split; weird residue was coating everything. We walked together uphill, until I found a place to sit and sort, and we parted ways. I wasn’t confident I would see her again; she seemed far fitter than I, and so we said goodbye and good luck. And then it was quiet once more.

I got passed by one other pilgrim, a man with (yet another) red backpack. Not entirely surprising, given that the outdoorsy colour schemes for men seemed to be red, navy and black – ve r y boring. My searches for an obnoxious yellow hiking rucksack had not yielded much :[ I spent the next hour resting, eating lunch and cleaning my things. Once I was repacked, I pulled on my bag and set off once more.


-Beaumont-

I had a blister. Two, to be exact. On the same toe. Little bit cooked, but what can you do!

Turns out : you can take a break. My ‘pace’, if it could even be called, that was really taking a hit due to incessant breaks – every town was marked with a sit down in the shade. All I wanted was a cold shower and a nap, but alas, Beaumont was where the heat hit. It laid wobbling across everything, thick and heavy and immobile.

Pilgrims statue in Beaumont!
As I walked into town, past the gîte which had once been a cheese factory, I was i t c h i n g to go inside – if only I had a credential. My stubbornness in not staying a night in Geneva had come back to bite me in the arse; the church here was closed too. No pass for me today.

It was now 4.00pm, and I had only around four hours until the sun set – unlike last night, I wanted to be set up and ready for sleep when it did. So, after a quick rest in a bus shelter, I tugged my boots back on and followed the signs to Col du Mont-Sion.


-???-

Or at least, started to. Almost immediately I ran off course, down a good few hundred metres of steep, steep downhill – which naturally lead to a dead end. I cannot properly describe the feeling that came over me when I realised I would have to get back up; something between dread and jesus-fucking-christ-why-am-i-doing-this. Eventually, I made it back to the cemetery I had passed moments before losing my way, and what better timing could there be !! I was out of water. I quickly filled my bottle and took a few gulps before realising the water was milk white. Ahhhh. Not good.

If I get some sort of crazy illness just know it is entirely because I drank what I can only assume is liquid death.

Views from Jussy!
After a little bit of searching, I found the actual water fountain. Small and green, it had a screw with no screw, a hole for a button sans button, and a spinny top that did,,, nothing ?? Having already resigned myself to dehydration part two, I was halfway across the cemetery when a little boy came running up to me and tugged me back. He led me to a woman crouched down by the fountain, waving me over. She showed me to spin it and then let g o and step back – sure enough, out poured the water.

We talked in broken languages until I had replaced my water-bladder, about homes and distance and the hugeness of the world. The boy waved goodbye to me as I disappeared down the road.


-The Woods-

Following the path <33
After passing through the small but winding down of Jussy, I entered what was supposedly the final fifty minutes before Col du Mon Sion. The first section cut through a gorgeous forest, where sky-divers and hang-gliders soared through above the cracks in the trees. I laid down on a bench, and was genuinely considering staying the night, but I was too afraid – of the noise, of the Creatures, of the Things in the Dark. I was not yet used to any of the noises – a forest would not end well.

A helpful forest imp guiding the way :}
So I wandered on, passing cows and places of pilgrim worship alike. Rolling meadows and towering cliff faces surrounded me, and the sun was beginning to set. It was warm and muggy and I was getting seriously sleepy. And so I did what anyone would do, and walked until I found an empty meadow. No signage, no fences. Just a wide open space directly by the path, but hidden by the trees. Perfect.

I sat and wrote, waiting for the sun to go down in earnest. As the last light faded, I rolled out my mat and sleeping bag, balled my jacket up as a pillow, and tried to sleep. The noises were eerie here too, all snapping twigs and jittery legs. But there was something about the meadow that felt oddly safe. The sky seemed endless, and the stars were slowly beginning to peek through the twilight. I would be alright :]

---

Day 1 – August 21st

Compesières to ??

15.5km

~ 26.6km total

€0

~ €13.60 total

 

[sunflowerfunk]

Day 2 : Festivities and French Cheese
-Chartruese de Pomier-

I woke up at 6.25am with optimistic plans for the morning, but upon realising I had spent half the night laying in a puddle and was now Drenched, decided instead to roll over and try again later. At 8.40am, I felt a little more ready, so I got changed behind some bushes and repacked my things (too many things), struggling with my mat only a record five minutes! As I did, not one, not two, but f o u r pilgrims passed me, each with a hanging shell.

I saw at least three shooting stars here :]
As I rejoined the trail, another passed me. What was going on?? This was more pilgrims than I’d seen the last two days combined – and it was only 9.00am! I made it only a few minutes before needing to switch shirts; as disgusting as my sweated-in-for-three-days shirt was, the other was scratchy and warm, and I was very quickly becoming overwhelmed. Not great considering it was the only other shirt I’d packed, but I’d leave that problem for later.

Luckily for me, I’d chosen wisely with the meadow. I was only a little while away from where I’d originally been trying to get to – far closer to Chatruese de Pomier than anything else – and after a brisk thirty minute walk I wandered on into Col du Mont Sion.


-Col du Mont Sion-

A small town that flowed softly downhill, Col du Mont Sion is all red roofs and rose gardens, and, like every town I’ve passed so far, completely fucking dead. I don’t know where the French were – three days in and I had still only seen the two at the water fountain. Starting to think they’ve been the real conspiracy all along,,,

Anyway, after meandering down to the crossroads, you turn right and then almost immediately left again and begin making your way up a steep gravel path that winds up and over and across the next few hills. Lot of sun, not a lot of shade. Here, I leapfrogged the four that had passed me earlier, drinking in the shadow of a cluster of trees. I had planned to stop there – I was already so tired – but was too nervous to go near them, so simply said ‘Bonjour!’ and moved on. In hindsight, this was a bonus; I then started a mini competition with myself to see how far I could make it before taking a break.

Some of the locals saying hello!

-Charly-

As it turns out, I can manage about 2.5 kilometres if you chuck the most gorgeous ornate freezing cold water fountain that you don’t have to turn on in the middle of a picturesque French town. I was ecstatic – my water bladder and bottle were full in an instant, and my soaking shirt was re-soaked in fresh water. I dunked my head under, as well as my hat. I was starting to take back what I had said about the Switzerland heat – not that it wasn’t the same as Australia – just that even at 25*, I’d not be fucking hiking with everything I’d need for the next four months strapped to my back. Perspective <33

Charly was beautiful; big old houses with staggering gardens, signs everywhere detailing the history, art shops (closed, of course) and a central church. I even saw actual French people !! It was like a dream,,

The church had an ‘onion’ dome from the 15th century – from what I could make out with poor French translation – and that was apparently very cool. I did like it; oddly-shaped structures were always a little funny to me, and this was no exception.

All hail the bulbous edible vegetable
Alas, onion-church was shut. No chance at a pilgrims passport here either. Checking both the local gîte and the auberge (private gîte) proved fruitless – no one to be found. Interestingly, all the doors are simply left open, it’s just the French that are missing. So, suitably drenched this time, I took a left at the crossroads and headed out of town.


-La Motte-

Getting to La Motte was,,,, the start of something. The route passes by four other towns, and each time you cycle through the full stages of grief. This must finally be it! Buckleys. And then you walk another thirty minutes directly up and down the hills, and you reach a *bigger* town. Nada! And then, surely, after another hour it won’t be another not-La-Motte – fucks sake!

That said, it was beautiful. A little upsetting that of all the people in the world, the ones that get to live in France are the French. With my bigotry in full swing, I plodded on, ever hopeful that the next town would be the one I was aiming for, and I could finally get something to drink and sit down. On the horizon behind me was a church positively sizzling in the heat; I could see it from here. At the top of the mountain, it was intimidating : there was at least wind up there. I seemed to be going downhill – how hot would it be in the valleys?

My view of the Alps today :]
And then one side of my headphones broke. Nooooo! Up until now, the easiest way to make the kilometres go faster was to breathlessly mumble along and try to pretend I was always almost there. I had a split second of actual on-the-verge-of-tears moment and had to stand still and take stock and breathe. Bizarre.

After a moment, I pressed on. My headphones could stick to the magnet by my ear, so the other one could just sit like a dead fly instead of dangling in my face. With one earbud in, and one ear listening to the crunch of gravel, I settled into a new pace, just in time to reach La Motte.

Once I arrived, I processed a severe lapse in judgement. Now, not to diminish my insistence that I am a functional and responsible adult, but I had been walking the last two days with nothing but a can of Pringles and a tin of roasted almonds. And with every shop and every cafe or restaurant shut that I passed, they were diminishing quick. La Motte was more of the same, empty streets and boarded shop. My goal for today had been to reach Chaumont – I had 11km left before I would have the chance to restock. And so began the most emotionally taxing part of my journey so far.

Because Chaumont was not just far, it was deceptively far. It was La Motte on steroids, town after town after town. The signs seemed to be taunting my and my incredible unfitness. 3hrs 55min to go turned to 3hrs 25min after an hour of walking. I was delirious and exhausted, but most importantly : I was stubborn. I would get to Chaumont tonight.

The bridge to another not-Chaumont
The later it got, the more I had to stop. I would walk until my legs turned to jelly and my clothes were sliding down, then I’d collapse in the shade of a field for half an hour and pray wind would come cool me down. I stopped like this maybe three times between La Motte and Chaumont. Each time, I felt dejected. The downside to my preparedness in packing a tent and mat and etc. was that I was, unfortunately, prepared. I needed more food, yes, but technically there was nothing stopping me from just refusing to move until morning!

Since midway through yesterday, I had stopped using the guide book. More than anything, it confused me, and the instructions were always slightly off in translation, so I kept getting lost. I was using it purely for the information on the towns; the rest of the time, I was simply following the shells. The upsides to this were numerous; I didn’t have to stop and check where I was going as much, I didn’t stress over directions because they were everywhere, and they didn’t constantly remind me of how much I had left to walk.

The downside was singular; they didn’t constantly remind me of how much I had left to walk.

On my own, I could not tell you how long 11km is – or how long it takes to walk. Add a heavy pack? Even less of an idea. It’s 37* and you don’t get water until the end of those kilometres so you have to ration it weird? God knows!

And so I was deliriously wandering, each time hoping with all my heart this could be a spot to rest but nada. Oh and then the other earphone broke. Fuuuuuck me. At least I would pass by Frangy tomorrow, whicch supposedly had the first proper shop since Geneva – maybe they’d have replacements there.

Pilgrims’ place of worship
At this point I was really feeling it, and my hips were killing me. The buckles weren’t fitting well and I constantly felt like I was denting my bones – not ideal. But I kept going, kept pushing, and eventually made it to a small town, which included a waymarker! Nearby, there was another sign;

‘0hrs 50min – Chaumont’

I was so close !! In fact, as I climbed the hill, I could see it !! It was just around the corner, then down into the valley and back up – I could even see the church! On and on I walked, until I reached a crossroads and the shells pointed in the opposite direction. No. And I followed them downhill. No no no. And I stood in front of the shell that pointed right up towards the sizzling church at the top of the mountain.

I sat down where I stood and just groaned. The grass was so comfortable, even in the sun. I could make the climb tomorrow, leave early to escape the heat. Eventually though, it was the allure of a cold shower that forced me on. And so after what felt like an eternity, I arrived in my hell.


-Les Malpas-

Hell is entirely unfair, and undeserved, but I would not be revoking it. The first few houses lit me up inside – I had m a d e it. After all this time, I was finally here, and I could finally rest, and I could finally sleep, and – what the hell is Les Malpas?!

Turns out, Les Malpas is a small village located absolutely fucking vertical on the mountain, designed entirely to piss people who were walking to Chaumont off.

[Authors note: if you couldn’t tell, I was starting to get very grouchy now. Absolute grump. Completely hilarious to read back on. It goes away soon.] [Also it was quite beautiful if I was less mad I’d have taken loads of pictures <33]

So I wandered further uphill, cursing my lungs and my legs and my brain and the entire goddamn Camino and Les Malpas and oooh a new town ! Surely this must be Chaumont.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

It was Les Malpas part two, because the first half didn’t give enough false hope they just really needed to hammer it in. And so I followed those stupid goddamn shells into an alley and came to a sign pointing directly uphill. And I mean almost vertical. It veered up and around the corner, and I wanted to faceplant in the closest meadow just looking at it. But this was the final push – I remembered from flicking through the book that Chaumont was the highest point around. This was it.


-Chez Margoët-

Perhaps Hell had been too much of an honour for La Motte, because Chez Margoët was super hell. For the past two hours, I thought every town was Chaumont, because eleven measly kilometres just couldn’t feel this long. And every single time, I was wrong. Until I just sort of,,, stumbled into it?

The sign that said Chaumont almost made me cry. I was so thrashed, and I felt horrific, and I was definitely sunburnt, and I had blisters, and I wanted fresh cold water f a s t. I collapsed by the welcome sign, optimistically drank every last drop of water that I had, then turned around.

’05min – 0.2km – Chaumont’

 

[sunflowerfunk]

Festivities and French Cheese (Part Two)
-Chamount-

Turns out that like Les Malpas, Chaumont was also split in two. Helpfully, the church and gîte and food I still needed were on the upper half. Joy!

I can honestly say they were the longest 200m of my life. It took me nearly eleven minutes to work my way up the steep path, every muscle in my body ready to give out. Exhausted no longer cut it – I was a mushy pile of limbs all sort of vaguely stumbling towards water. Gross !!!

I did make it though, if anyone at home is really holding their breath. I worked my way up (down?) the main road, until I came to a few people setting up chairs and tables near a water fountain. Perfect. One woman noticed me look around for the good water – this fountain was ‘non potable’, and pointed it out. Broken French and English once more – I really needed to learn more French. She invited me to come join everyone for dinner – tonight there would be music and festivities!

Feeling refreshed and maybe 20% full of life with water and the promise of food, I turned around and walked up the few steps to the Church. Doors were shut. Damn! It was a little past 4.00pm, the earliest I’d finished so far, but still later than any church I’d made it to – all the others had been closed already. Damn damn damn!

The problem with the church being closed was not only that I had no way to get a credencial, but no way to sleep. The gîte was ‘rustique’, and was located above the church – without the church, my plans for tonight were gone. I chucked my bag down in the little square in front of it and contemplated what to do.

Eat. I scarfed down the last few chips and almonds, then sculled most of my water. I needed more, but at least now I had something in my stomach. Now I could really form a plan.

The first thought I had on my now less-empty stomach was; had I simply tried opening the door? And so I walked back to the church, pushed down on the handle and the door swung open. Are you fucking k i d d i n g me?

It was empty, of course. Not a soul in sight – nor any credentials. But,,, there were two more old wooden doors, right at the back. It felt oddly creepy, walking along the cold marble floor of an empty church – when I hummed, the building seemed to hum with me. I stood behind the alter, feeling sacrilegious and generally queer (ha!), and tried to open them. The second door was shut, no key in sight. But the first opened easily, if not for the first time in a long time.

Like a movie scene, massive billowing dust clouds flung out to meet me, and bugs scuttled around the hinges. It was pitch black. Pulling out my phone light, I saw that there were three more doors; one led to a pit, one led to a set of stairs, and one led back outside. The stairs were the only one that was locked, the rest opened creakily, sending shaking light dancing over the spiders who had presumably been building their masterpieces for years. Thoroughly creeped out, I backtracked.

Stained glass in the Chaumont church
Hmm. I seemed to have found the gîte – but how to get the key? After some internal back and forth;

‘Never in a million years.’

‘Embrace the awkward!’

‘I’d rather be set on fire.’

‘Everything will be fine!’

I sided with my inner optimist. Everything would be fine, and if it wasn’t, I could literally just run away. There was supposedly a small shop nearby, and old ruins on the very top of the hill I could surely wildcamp in.

And so I walked b a c k to the people setting up the festivities, and with google translate and some incredibly poor miming skills, managed to ask about the gîte and the keys. Someone spoke to someone, and that someone said that ‘non problem!’ and said to shower and get comfortable and then pay at dinner. Perfect! She double checks with me that it is open, and I – intelligently – assume she means the actual literal church, and so I say ‘oui’, and go to, as instructed, get comfortable. I don’t clock onto what she meant until I get back to the locked door.

Once more, I debate myself;

‘Just pay at dinner and shower after don’t you dare go back down.’

‘It’d be worse to show up gross.’

‘No it wouldn’t if you walk back down now you’ll look so fucking stupid.’

‘I am fucking stupid though so on a technicality it’s probably brave’

Optimist me wins again (on an absolute r o l l today), and I wander back down.

Naturally, she’s confused, and tells me she opened it today – and begins speedwalking towards the church. I follow as she walks,,, directly past it? To the restaurant owners house, I assume (again, very intelligently). So when she leads me up a set of cobblestone stairs to the quaintest little cottage I’ve ever seen and goes ‘see?’ I finally register.

The gîte is not literally above the church – it’s behind it. Mistranslation has struck again! I almost run back down – almost. – and grab my bags, laughing as I enter the church to find,, a Guy ?

Now, there is (lots) more of him to come, but I need you, whoever you are reading this, to know that the first words out of his mouth were, “are you alone?”. Not the best start – I was immediately shitscared. He had an accent I really couldn’t place, and I didn’t hear his answer when we swapped the standard pilgrim questions;

1. What’s your name?

2. How far are you going?

3. Where are you from?

Even more confused, I followed him back to the gîte, realising he would be my roommate for the night.

We split ways here, as he went down to dinner, and I went to go be a person. The shower had no temperature dial, and so was mostly boiling, but I didn’t have it in me to complain anymore. Hot water on my aching shoulders was borderline biblical, and I stayed in there for far too long. I had forgotten what it was like to feel clean!

After the shower, I needed a moment to revel in my newfound cleanliness. And so I resorted to the classics; laying on the floor. The gîte had odd wood laminate everywhere, and it was smooth and cool. I stayed there for maybe ten minutes before realising if I didn’t get up now I’d fall asleep. Not possible – I still had chores!

I hand washed all my clothes – in the morning I could again wear the soft shirt – and hung them out to dry while drinking a citrusy fizzy drink that was well worth the €1. Cold drinks were a luxury I would never again take for granted – in that moment I think I was the most peaceful I’ve ever been in my life.

Looking out of the window in the kitchen :]
That calm didn’t last too long though, because soon a band struck up in the little church square and began playing hearty renditions of songs I did not expect to be banging in rural France; Highway to Hell by AC/DC, Keep On Trying by Poco, and – what finally drew me down to the hubbub, Take Me Home, Country Roads by John Denver. It was making me weirdly emotional; this was the feeling I had hoped for. Light and clean and happy.

Now all that was left was to brave it. It was a massive celebration which the entire town was attending. A few hundred people eating food from a menu I couldn’t understand – uh oh. Thankfully though, I had a saviour. An unexpected one, at that.

Craig.

My new roommate appeared in front of me with a smile and reassured me that I didn’t have to order – it would just Appear. He led me over to a table and pulled in a new chair for me, ever the while chiding me for not knowing French.

“Come on man,” he laughed, “how else are you going to meet a French woman?”

I chose not to comment, and instead we made small talk until the food arrived. Craig was an economics professor in Switzerland, but had grown up in the USA (now his accent made sense), and had been working vague tech/engineering jobs his whole life. He was an older guy, maybe early seventies, and had just gone on the pension. His reason for doing the Camino was simply because it “logistically made the most sense”, so that probably does more to sum him up that I can <33

The food turned out to be a massive charcuterie board filled with cheeses and spreads and sautéed vegetables, with the bonus piece of the best watermelon I’ve had in my life to date. It truly did look like something out of a Pintrest board – I couldn’t believe this is just something everyday for some people. Most of it was delicious, though unfortunately I am still a staunch hater of soft cheeses. And a few hard cheeses, but they’re generally easier!

We paid together, not necessarily by choice but because the people working at the restaurant assumed he was my father, which was a little awkward for both of us! But I don’t think I helped things by trailing behind him like a lost dog back up to the rooms, where I began writing down the days happenings. I quickly got distracted, however, and we talked for hours into nightfall, about travel and youth and school and time and constellations and the logistics of being alive.

Sunset over the
Later, when he went to sleep, I stayed out, sipping cold peach tea and listening to the (now significantly drunker) party. The local cat was wrapping around my legs, the nearby villages lit up the mountainside and fireworks exploded in the valley below. I was content.

And with the stars flickering over the ruins and Bella Ciao echoing through the night, I slept.

---

Day 2 – August 22nd

Chartreuse de Pomier to Chaumont

19.9km

~ 46.5km total

€33

~ €46.60 total

 

[sunflowerfunk]

Day 3 : Breaking - Calling an Ambulance Does Not Make List of Top Ten Ways to Start Your Morning
<General warning for blood, injuries, fainting, gory descriptions etc. – if you skip ahead to Frangy you’ll skip the bulk of it but there’s brief references throughout!>


-Chaumont-

Waking up was easy today; the church very helpfully began tolling at six – but not for six rings, but six minutes. I felt like my head was caving in there was no way I could block it out. So up I was, with Craig already packed and about to be on his way. So long! I would miss his American-Swiss accent.

But there were other things to think about this morning, namely breakfast. There was a host of free items we could help ourselves too (including milk)i, so, as tradition dictates, I poured myself a glass and began. I put way too much confidence in muesli (it’s still just not that great), forced myself to believe I like natural yoghurt (I don’t), and tried to down some quince jam on buttered bread (that part was actually easy it was delicious).

Packing took longer than I would’ve liked, but I just honestly didn’t really want to leave. It was so cute here, and even if the general forcing-myself-to-learn-French was hard and awkward, it would at least be in a pretty town on the top of a mountain! But I didn’t want to push my luck – for those legal eagles (it’s not copyrighted you can’t sue me) who noticed that although I stayed at the gîte (€21 for bed and breakfast??), I still didn’t have a credential, turns out it’s not even technically that necessary. Usually the stamps are inside the gîtes (according to Craig yesterday at least), so you could just,,, stay and pay and not get stamps. Thank god. My stress on that part could wait a little.

By 7.30am I was off on my merry way, back down to Chaumont (part one), and on to Frangy, a town (complete with shop!) around 3km away. According to the signs, I would take me fifty minutes. Thirty minutes had me nearing the town, down a relatively steep gravel road. I hadn’t seen anyone else for hours, so imagine my surprise when I hear a voice to my left. It’s French, so I don’t understand it, but I definitely hear something! I pause, listen. The crunch of gravel starts to sound like people when you walk long enough, and on more than one occasion I’ve assumed I was with someone when it was just me. Looking around and seeing nothing, hearingnothing, I took another few steps. There it was again!

I stepped over to the left, looked around the tree – hell, looked up the tree! No one, anywhere. And then, again. Something. And then I look down.

There, directly to my left, two and a half meters down, is a man. His limbs are twisted at impossible angles, and he’s covered in blood. He laughs, ‘Merci, merci, merci’. But I’m almost frozen. I can see the white of his skull. He’s got lacerations on every available inch of skin; arms, legs, face, neck. There’s a sharp stick going directly through his arm. He’s still talking, but I can’t understand a word. I’m completely alone. And there’s no one for hours. Fuck.

I jump into the ditch with him, fumble with the thistles and weeds that surround him. One stings my hand, and I jerk back, remembering what Craig had told me yesterday, when he found them under our washing line; “those ones bite”. This man was surrounded by them, frail skin burnt and covered in thorns. If I moved them, it would injure him more – and I wouldn’t be able to understand him if he asked me to stop. Shit shit shit.

He tries to talk, but no amount of broken French I can muster works for this scenario. Google translate, my last hope, refuses to pick up his voice. I can talk to him, but he cannot respond. He’s starting to realise that I can’t help him, not enough. But the answers I do understand are more confusing. No ambulance, but please help. I try to dial anyway, but it won’t ring. My first aid kit feels like a kiddy bandaid, completely unprepared for this. And he’s still bleeding. I tell him I could go ask for help at the nearest houses but he says ‘non non non’, refuses to let me leave. I’d later learn he had been there for hours, and no one had come.

And so we wait, wait for someone, anyone. I give him water, and he refuses. We wait. My heart is going about a million miles an hour, and every time I look at his head I have to crouch down for fear of fainting. We wait. I’m trying to keep him talking. Five minutes, ten, thirty. Finally, the distant clack of walking poles. It’s a woman, who is very confused when I pop out of the long eroded ditch bone white and joltily ask if she can get help. She comes to the side and drops her walking poles. ‘Un moment!’

She’s back with help in five minutes, two men who leap into action, harshly tearing back the thorns, jumping in beside him. The other gets water, forces him to drink, the woman calling for an ambulance. I stay crouched near the first man, trying to explain why I’m here. He speaks a few phrases of English – we make do. The ambulance arrives and I watch as they lift him out, skin peeling from his arms. I’ve never felt nausea like this, and when they declare everything all clear I speed away towards Frangy, towards shade, dunking my head in the nearest fountain and trying to breathe.


-Frangy-

And then, like a dream, I enter the town of Frangy. It’s bright, and quaint, and bustling. Families are on their ways to the cafes and patisseries, and the smell of freshly baked croissant is everywhere. It’s making me feel ill. I can’t get the thought of the man out of my head, and how useless I felt. I would learn French, and I would learn it fucking fast. My legs were still shaking when I entered the shop.

Here, at least, I could be distracted. The ill I felt outside was very different to the ill I felt now. The inside of a shop is another one of my hells – too many options and too many chances for conversation and too many opportunities for horrific embarrassment. Even so, I managed to escape with a baguette, tomatoes and pesto. Food for today was sorted.

Murals in Frangy !
When I returned to the sunlight, I was still reeling. Even having to strap the baguette to the outside of my bag wasn’t bringing me the joy it normally would. I walked past sweet shops and pharmacies, under a bridge and over two more, then climbed a hill before dropping in the shade. I was shaky. I needed to eat, and I needed to drink, and I needed to rest. I’d forgotten to buy earbuds. I wouldn’t have heard him if I’d have been wearing earbuds. Shiiiiiiiit.

I napped fitfully, but the sleep helped. So did food. Slowly, I became a person again. After drinking half my bottle in one go, I fell back asleep. It had been so hot in the gîte I’d barely managed to get a wink – but here in the field? Never been more comfortable.

After a while, I tried to continue. But the progress was gruelling. The heat was finally really getting to me – today was 40*. I had made the mistake of napping up until the hottest point of the day, t h e n walking. Rookie. Over the span of a few hours and several long breaks, I wandered on into Desingy.


-Desingy-

Desingy was, again, quiet. It was nearing on 2.00pm, and the heat was just going up. Wisely, the French were indoors, in their cool (in both ways) brick and wood houses, shutters closed in the dark. I was yearning for the same. But I’d settle for a church shadow.

The Desingy church was odd. Even sitting directly outside it, the bells sounded like they came from somewhere else, and left me constantly looking around. Occasionally, a car would pass and I’d start.

I was having a real pilgrim break – shoes off and socks airing on my bag, food half made on the ground, fanning myself with my hat, leading through the guidebook and drinking the town out of every drop of water they had. I’d started a new routine; each time I stopped, too exhausted to continue and sat for an hour, I’d flick through the guidebook to figure out where I could sleep, as close as possible. Some vague spot of green on the map, something to push me forward just a few more minutes.Then, inevitably, I’d realise I actually did want to keep walking, always to get to something. Today was no exception, and today that something would be Seyssel. So after an hour or so of the shade, I repacked once more and set off.


-Curty-

I made it through 4km without stopping after that, which for me was huge. Something about that Desingy break had resparked me, and as I walked I talked to myself, trying to dance around the man, catching glimpses of him only ever in periphery.

Curty was the turning point between the classic Via Gebennensis and the variant route, and even though the variant was longer, I would be taking it purely because of a single word in the German guidebook – ‘bad’. Ever funny in English, but the idea of finally swimming had cemented in my mind, and I would go insane if I didn’t feel the river Rhône today.

Arriving at the first of two crossroads in town, I laid down once more. I was next to the road, sandwiched between a bus stop and a concrete cross complete with shell, and the grass was the scratchy kind that gets stuck to everything, but I didn’t care. In that moment, it was the most comfortable place on earth.

I did end up falling asleep; so tired was I, in fact, that the only reason I knew I fell asleep was because I had been fanning myself with the guidebook, and mid-fan I had zonked out and dropped it on my face, slamming my elbow to the ground. Strong start, I know. I was ready to sleep forever – but I wasn’t at Seyssel yet.

As I refilled my water and repacked my bag to leave, a man called out to me, offered me some cold beer. I thanked him, but declined, walking out into the light. So, moral of the story is : if you’re ever in Curty, just arrive looking like a boiled rat and you’ll probably score some free booze.

First view of the Rhône from between Curty and Les Côtes

-Les Côtes-

The last township before Seysell, Les Côtes is maybe the prettiest little place I’d seen so far. It rivals Charly, and that was saying something. It was tiny and colourful and old and silent; exactly the type of place I’d want to live. It’s split into three levels, and between the bottom two I paused again. There’s something to be said about the pauses, about knowing you’re too just a little too late. I would make it by 7.00pm, but the shops and places I needed to go would be shut. I would be walking forty minutes out of my way today to swim, then walking there and back again tomorrow. Worth it :]

Beautiful old houses in Les Côtes <33

-Seyssel-

If there’s one thing the French love, it’s bunting
Seeing the Rhôde stretched out in front of me was incredible. It was huge, and so fast and blue (and milky?). I followed it for the aforementioned forty minutes, through bright buildings with flower bunting and pristine chapels. Past delicious lasagne shops (self control pushed to its very limits) and gourmet gelato (REALLY to its limits), and over the old bridge. I followed the river until I reached the Base Natique Aqualoisirs, a small isolated pool of water right beside the Rhône, and my sweet fucking god.

As I dumped my pack by the water and began rifling for my towel, a woman approached me, asking if I was on my way to Santiago. She told me about her sister, who was incredibly brave and set out alone even at the risk of losing opportunities, and said it was the best decision she ever made. We made idle chit-chat for a few more moments, then she bid me adieu to swim. Her dress had sweet little polka dots and I think I loved her.

I quickly took off my pants – what are swimmers if not underwear – and got in. Sweet, sweet relief. My aches were soothed, my brain quieted. I swam for hours, till the sun went down, listening to the shrieks and squeals of children as they played, smelling the barbecues cooking along the sand. When I eventually got out, I felt like last night; clean and refreshed and warm.

Seyssel from behind
Another woman sits beside me on a bench, tells me this is her favourite spot in the world. I can see why. The moon sends a line of light across the inlet of the Rhône, and the lights of surrounding villages twinkle along the mountainside. A train chugs past, little windows to another world. The frogs croak and the baby ducks slowly quack themselves to sleep. She sits motionless for a few minutes, then thanks me. I ask what for, and she shakes her head. She leaves quietly.

I stay as one by one, all the families begin to leave. The lights go out, the stars come alive. The temperature is perfect, by the way. 30* with a breeze, trees whispering. It’s Goldilocks; just right. And so I meet you again, lovely reader, at night, on a bench once more. I think I can officially confide in you that I’m starting to actually quite love France, but please, keep that just between us <33

---

Day 3 – August 23rd

Chaumont to Seyssel

18.5km

~ 65km total

€8.64

~ €55.24 total

 

[sunflowerfunk]

Day 4 : Shitty French, Worse Translations and Major Breakthroughs
-Seyssel-

Today, I woke up at 6.25am, covered in dew. It had gotten cold, and I had had a bit of a miserable night – my choice in park benches was unwise, and every bone in my body ached. But it was hard to actually be under the weather while the sun rose over the Rhône. If you aren’t yet sick of how much I love the Rhône, don’t worry, because it continues for all of today <33

The view from my bench :]
I packed my things as the first swimmers arrived, and I longed to join them, but I knew if I went in I’d stay another night just to be in the water, so I kept away. I needed to make up for lost time – with flights for Christmas booked, I now did have a deadline. I would need to be in Santiago (the second time), by December 15. That left me 113 days, including today. And I was not walking quite long enough for it to work. I needed to be making at least 20km days, every day from now on.

I was still wanting to give myself a fighting chance though, and so I was backing myself. I’d been averaging 18km a day, and that wasn’t so far off. On top of that, the Via Gebennensis was very uphill-downhill, where the others tended to flatten off a little. That would help with my pace, and I was hoping I could mostly catch up that way. But I would still start now.

So at 8.00am (the one day I woke up early was the one day I needed to wait for shops to open), I backtracked forty minutes into Seyssel. If possible, it was even more beautiful in the morning – the sun sent the reflections of the yellow buildings wobbling across the water, and the church towered above everything. It was more alive today, more people wandered over the ancient footbridge onto the main road, looking for friends and siblings.

François the Hound
I wandered on into the outskirts, trying to find the tourist office to ask about a credential. They had no idea – but not here. It would wait again. Back down I went, this time in search of a shop. The only one remotely near me was a little cornerstore, where I bought some apples, veryoverpriced almonds, yoghurt, and – responsibly – splurged on a magnum. It was already 37*, leave me alone. Breakfast was sorted then, and I ate in the shade of the church, watching little birds pick at the fountain.

And then, like every time before, I was off.


-Pont du Fier-

The walk to Pont du Fier was two kilometres of zero shade along the Rhône, and the back of my neck was boiling. But the worst was yet to come; the way had begun t a u n t i n g me. I turned the corner to find a n o t h e r isolated pool, this one e n t i r e l y in the shade, surrounded by swings and fun-playground-things-I-was-now-a-little-too-old-to-go-on-alone-without-looking-creepy. The French were out in full force, relaxing and having fun. Bastards.

I pressed on, down a windy – but thankfully shady – road, with cars few and far between, listening to the glee fade away in the distance. I was once more rubbing shoulders with the Rhône, and I followed it’s dips and curves for another few kilometres, until I heard the gentle thunder. Barrage de Motz – a massive dam. It was almost jarring, seeing a gigantic industrial structure after my morning of nothing but bike paths and water.

After passing the local kayak river guides about to start their morning appointments, the way leads you straight ahead towards some rocks that definitely don’t look like a path, but once you clear them you find yourself in,,, a new climate?

Almost instantaneously, you enter what feels like a rainforest. The river rushes on, just out of eyesight, as tall, broad leafed plants hang heavy with heat. The ground is cobble and mud, thick sludge coating the soles of your shoes. The birds chirp lower here, and hidden animals click and croak as you pass. And then it ends.

Glimpses of the Rhône
You arrive at the top of a hill to find two houses and the same dry, hot fields you left not ten minutes ago. The locusts and grasshoppers Tick and Boing across the road, where slugs have turned to stone and died on the burning asphalt. The humidity is almost gone, the broad green plants switched for brittle corn. What was that?

Leaving the microclimate behind you, you walk 50m past vineyards and pastures before coming to a road that forks sharply downhill into the shade. You will follow this road all the way into Motz, which, if your general fitness also leaves something to be desired, will take you around thirty minutes.

Motz is a cute little town you will see very little of, considering at the very first house you turn right and go directly behind the treeline. Here, you go downhill on an incredibly sheer angle down smooth stone, almost tripping over your own feet every three steps. The upside is, your downhill is marked with seemingly endless vineyards, and the grapes look delicious. But I do not take any, not today, because all I can think about it the German guidebook referring to the act as “mouth theft”, which is the first – but not last! – flawless translation of the day.

Do not take the shade for granted, because soon you’ll enter – for you – about an hour of straight sun. And it’ll fucking suck. And you’ll probably curse God. And then every bit of wind will stop and you’ll go ‘Jesus Christ sorry’ and she won’t like that either.

Eventually I felt like I was going insane with the heat, and began searching for a place to sleep. Can’t be hot if you’re not even there! The very first shady spot with even ground I came upon was my bed. Stretched out between the long-empty gravel road, live electric fences, a tree and a ,, Big Log, I slept like a baby.

For about ten minutes. Tragically, you actually can still feel the heat asleep, and I woke in what can only be described as a plash of sweat. But heat had another force to reckon with : I was Eepy. I slept again. And again. Each time I woke tired and gross, I would simply rotate and try again, for the better part of an hour. Then I sat up and let the wind dry me as I downed my water and ate one of my (delicious) apples. A brilliant purchase!

From here, it was only ten minutes to Mothy.

Living creatures ?? In France ??

-Mathy-

Mathy was – and this may shock you – lifeless. Not a soul stirred as I wandered the gravel main road. Okay, that wasn’t entirely fair; several lizards scampered away from my shadow, and I guessed that counted. I found a small cabinet tacked to the outside of a small, open, brick shell of a house with all the stamps and pens a pilgrim could desire, along with an invitation to rest in the shade. Damn. I seemed to always miss the best spots by a few minutes!! If only the sleep hadn’t struck so fast,,

I had one goal and one goal only in Mathy : get water. I still had 1/4 of my bladder and 1/2 of my bottle, but I knew by now that would run out far quicker than I was anticipating. And after this, there’d be nothing for 4km, until the rest stop in Les Borsières. After doing loops around the town, I came up blank. There was one tap, but it had no indication that it was potable – and in the (literal) heat of the moment, I decided 4km was better than getting really ill and not being able to walk for days.

The cats here had a way of always making me think were dead
Now, I don’t know if any local masters of perception have noticed that I tend to end paragraphs with positivity and then – shock horror – start the next ones with a very millenial ‘well that didn’t last huyuck’, but it’s a disease and I can’t stop, so indulge me.

I ran out of water about twenty minutes from Mathy. Aaaah. Not good. Well, technically I had about two mouthfuls left in my bottle, but I was saving those. The heat was really starting to get at me, so I paused again, downed some terrible almonds (cannot believe I spent almost €6 on bad almonds) and an apple. What I undoubtedly should’ve done was go, ‘hey, it’s better to have some maybe a little bit dodgy water than it is to have none, or hey! You could even ask someone where to find some :]’. But as soon as he heard the last part, my cynic took over. Dead French town ?? Find someone ?? I’d have to knock on doors – I’d sooner die of dehydration.

So I trudged on, lamenting my cynic. From this point on, I cannot tell you the exact path, because all I was focused on was getting myself so distracted I couldn’t think about my thirst. I had started to miss the music too much, and played a few songs quietly out loud – only knowing there were no houses for kilometres and I hadn’t seen a human person since Seyssels. But soon I could hear the water again, and turned it off. Oh the Rhône! I’d never seen something so beautiful ; it’s weird slightly milky water was like something out of a film.

As I followed it, I couldn’t help but think about the rest stop. Soon soon soon. I would meet the Rhône, dip away, reconnect and at that interception would be Les Borsières. All I had to do was get there. I refused to stop until I arrived; without water, it would be so much harder to start again. I pushed on, and on. 4km stretched into decades – anyone starting to notice a common theme here? – but finally, the sign was there. I had made it to the rest stop :]


-Les Borsières-

To be clear, the rest stop was a bench.


-Pont de la Loi-

Fuck fuck shit fuck. I was so thirsty. My next stop was meant to be Chanez, another 8.5km away – I physically wouldn’t be able to make it. Milky river water has never looked so good (I didn’t). After consulting the map, I discovered that the Camino also brushed against another town a few kilometres down the road : La Loi. Tiny, but a town nonetheless. Surely this wouldn’t be another Mothy – they’d have a fountain.

I took the last swig of my water to motivate myself, and kept going. Another thirty minutes trundled by, and I was talking to myself – not a symptom of the dehydration, just for fun – when the bushes beside me shook with force. Oh. What maniac lay in wait, ready to murder pilgrims, what feral beast – cat :]

Toothless !
She perched on the nearest rock and I was in love. Eye of the storm and all that, because when I turned around, everything was alright in the world. I had stumbled upon – and I need you to know I’m serious – a secret cat society. They were e v e r y w h e r e, sitting in trees and laying on the ground and dipping their paws in the puddles. They had completely taken over this long decrepit house in the forest, and I had disturbed them. They fled, disappearing into the ether, as I neared their home.

Ancient forest house, complete with cat <33
The path soon twisted, and I jumped a fence to cut into La Loi. It was bigger than Mothy, significantly, and so I had hope – but that was quickly dwindling. Nothing, nothing, nothing. Finally, my cynic cracked. Seeing a man walking down the street, I ran back down towards him before he turned into his house and I lost him, looked him in the eye and spewed out some vaguely French word vomit. He tilted his head and I tried again; miraculously, it worked. He told me to follow the path to the restaurant where I would find eau potable. Merci!

And there it was – heaven on earth. A toilet, water spout a n d an eco-charging-port-bench (?) for bikes and everything else you could imagine, which conveniently was made in the best napping shape possible.

I drank, and drank and drank, then drank some more, and then drank a bit. I was a thirsty man – I had walked for seven kilometres without water. Then I went to the bathroom, which had what I would consider a standard toilet (getting used to the squatting ones here had taken a few days); yet another luxury. I didn’t nap, but I did reassess my day.

My goal was still to make it to Chanez, not for any real reason other than the fact that it had a shop and I needed groceries (a few apples and shitty almonds was Not cutting it), but as I looked for a new Thing to push me on, I found it.

Le Burger.

I hadn’t thought about burgers once in the last month but suddenly I could imagine nothing better. Plus, it was literally called Le Burger and that is s o funny, how could I not ?!? With my new aim in mind, and the storm brewing, I walked on, attempting to teach myself restaurant-related phrases.

Clouds coming in over La Loi

-Étang Bleu-

Another three kilometres had disappeared behind me when I arrived in Étang Bleu. Would anyone like to make a guess as to what would resuscitate my mood entirely? Ding ding ding ! Another swimming spot :]

Not that I realised it at first – what caught my eye was a small restaurant, just beginning to open. And I was so dead, and Chanaz was still so far away, and I was like a moth to fairylights because the second they turned on I had made my decision. I took a picture of the menu trying out the Google translate picture to words thing and my god – what an invention. As I backtracked a little to the camping table and toilets I had just passed to change into a nicer (read : dry) shirt, I had to contain myself. The desire to order ‘you & her shit moss’ was mounting.

Bon Appetite !
After people watching for a moment so I would know what to do, I approached the counter. Fumbling through my French, I got a table. I felt crazy, sitting next to all these beautiful people in beautiful clothes with my hiking clothes still reeking of sweat, even after cleaning myself up! I was out of place, and I knew it. Not good for Mr. Cynic.

I was still trying to wrangle him back down when I ordered; nailed the things I wanted – a burger (sue me) and orangina, but was entirely undone when she asked how I wanted the burger cooked. Not a fucking word processed, and so I had to confess my inability to actually speak French. Luckily, she spoke English, and everything was okay. I was fucking ecstatic. Not to be incredibly lame, but ordering at a restaurant in my own language was horrifying enough, and doing it almost entirely in another language, a n d it being okay?? This was huge for me :]

They did only have one burger, and it was meat, but I was too hungry to care, and I needed the protein. So, I caved. So long, vegetarianism (minus the tuna and salami). It came, and it was delicious, and man did I love orangina, and as the sun set over the mountains I felt genuinely proud of myself – how surreal.

Pretty sunsets over the almost-invisible Rhône :]
After I finished and paid, I walked down the road a little, planning to get at least a little closer to Chanaz, but my plans came to a screeching halt when I saw the swimming hole not fifty metres from the restaurant. Fucking y e s. It was too dark now to swim but tomorrow morning I would not make the same mistake as today. I laid against my pack for a time, waiting for the stragglers to leave and watching the trains pass by on the tracks above the lake. Then, like I had on the second night, I unrolled my mat and slept beneath the stars :]

---

Day 4 – August 24th

Seyssels to Ètang Bleu

19km

~ 84km total

€37.17

~ €92.41 total

 

[sunflowerfunk]

Day 5 : 100km Down!
-Ètang Bleu-

As it would happen, I did repeat the mistakes of yesterday. When I woke at 6.45am, I was freezing. I couldn’t stomach the thought of the surely frigid water, and instead repacked my damp bag, hanging yesterdays’ socks on the outside of my pack to dry and pulling on my,,,, other,,, socks,,,,,

Where were my other socks?? I had three pairs with me, today all but one had vanished. They must have fallen out while I walked and I hadn’t noticed!!!! This was a problem, because without a rotation of socks, blisters would become much more common and much worse. Thankfully, I had night-socks; thick, warm, woollen ones. Not exactly hiking material, but they worked in a pinch, while these ones dried. I would add them to my growing list of things to look out for in the bigger towns I passed.

Right as I was about to leave, completely ready with pack on, I put my hand in something wet – slugs. They were everywhere (I’d had to flick a few off me after I got out of my sleeping bag this morning), and I groaned, leaning down to wash my hand in the icy water. Only, it wasn’t icy. It was,,, warm?? Refusing to think about the fact that I could have gone swimming and it would’ve helped me, I took the next road to Chanez.

Early mornings by the mountain :]
Once more, I followed my beloved Rhône. The sun had not quite risen over the neighbouring hills – it was only 7.00am – and the soft orange glow of the morning began to hit the tallest trees on the mountains. It was so peaceful, so quiet. It felt like I was the only one awake. At a crossroads at the end of Ètang Bleu, you go straight ahead, then through a small (cattle?) gate onto a gravel road that mimics the river, twists and winds. Here the river splits, engulfs you; on either side they glimmer, one on the right hurriedly dashing, and on the left sloping gently along. Here is where the Instagram-level blue water is – I couldn’t get the pictures right because of the reflections, but just imagine Aeroplane-jelly-pond-style-cake blue mixed with those fake glass pebbles old people put in their gardens and you’re halfway there <33

Speaking of halfway there – you better focus! You’re about to arrive :]


-Chanez-

Located just a few kilometres from my starting point, Chanez is split between two sides of the Rhône river, linked with the almost ludicrously tall foot-bridge. And it’s stunning. I arrive at around 7.30am, only to discover the shops are shut until 8.00am. I wait outside the local gîte and try and kill time by refilling my water – not much success, it’s pay to drink (not a chance).

Chanez!
Standing at the top of the bridge, I pause and people-watch for a second. I love early mornings; the gentle buzz of a town about to come alive. But there, in the distance, leaving the town – could it be ?? A blue checkered shirt ?? Tall wooden pole ?? German level short jorts ?? And a paddy cap ??

Craig !!!!!

He was here, I was sure of it. Or was, anyway – he had already disappeared on the path. He was so goddamn q u i c k it didn’t make any sense for him to still be here, but that was his pack!! I’d try to chase him down eventually – but I couldn’t think about that right now, because I needed to find food.

Wandering up the sidestreet towards the local épicière, I clocked that today was going to be the reunion special. Because there, waiting outside with the packs, were two of the four that I had leapfrogged in the shade before Charly, three days earlier, two of the four I had met with breifly in Chaumont that night.

“Bonjour, bonjour!”, one of them smiled, “Ow arh yew dewoing own theese fine mor-nong?”

(French accents would never get less funny)

We swapped pleasantries, them laughing as I pulled on a push door only to realise it wasn’t a push door I just hadn’t pulled hard enough but then when I pushed it harder nothing happened and then I had to get rescued by the o t h e r two who opened it for me. [Run-on sentences are a myth made up by Big Writing! Live your rambly dreams <33]

Waving goodbye to one another, I grabbed my next lot of groceries; a baguette take two, chocolate pastry-somethings, some apples, an orange, a nectarine, a tomato and a bottle of coke. One of those does look a little out of place but the bubbles made it constantly feel cold and I had a feeling today’s temperature would be worse – wet heat always was.

Walking back down into Chanez, I went to t o w n on that nectarine. It was the most ripe, delicious fruit I’d ever eaten in my life, and the juice was running all down my arms and it all just felt like summer. I was in a fantastic mood as I chucked the seed into the bin and started my climb uphill; a mood that only improved upon realising whose packs I was following up – the two Germans from day one !!! Hieße, heiße, heiße !!

Rain coming in over the vineyards
I swapped a bit of laughter with them as I passed too; we all knew they’d pass me again later while I napped, then I’d catch up again and our cycle would continue. I still had yet to talk to them in German though, so I swore that if I saw them again tomorrow, I’d try.

The path out of Chanez is long, and winds through towns which are more just scattered collections of a couple houses chucked together, occasionally with a water fountain. It leads up, up, up onto the mountain, then flattens to reveal a brick home in the midst of an immense vineyard. It was here, on the outskirts, that I paused for breakfast. I took off my shoes, laid back against my pack and watched the storm roll in. (The four French and two Germans passed me here, laughing at my long breaks).

Realising it would soon start to rain, I clocked that I had a problem. My raincover,,,, no longer fit overmy backpack. I had too many things strapped to the outside, tents and mats and dirty socks and now – a fucking baguette. After a lot of manoeuvring, I managed to make it almost work. The baguette would stay dry, and that was the important thing.

Gradually, it started to pitter-patter, and I recollected myself, optimistically put on my rain jacket, and went forth. About two minutes later the rain really started, and two minutes after that I took the jacket back off. You though the initial sweat was rough, try wrapping it in plastic and then t r a p p i n g it. Foul! A little while later, the rain tapered off anyway, so it was for the best <33

It was a long, long, long walk to my next stop. Stubbornness had won again, and I refused to rest until I hit Jongieux le Haut. Only problem was, that was taking a while. And it was starting to rain again. Oh well!

As the rain picked up, I found myself wandering over hills and past towns into valleys, climbing sharply to church steeples and then down just as quickly. Apparently, it was because the hills made great vantage points to see any threats to the surrounding area (obvious answer, lame) but also because it made it easier for medieval pilgrims (new answer, surprising, fun fact) – instead of following the shells, as I did now, they would follow the churches. Climb to the top of a mountain to see the church? You’ve got a pretty solid shot at seeing the next one.

‘Ultreia’ has no real meaning outside of a pilgrim context, but many of the towns you pass have it as up an encouragement to wanderers :]
Still didn’t help the fact I was climbing bloody mountains to Not sit down!! The Germans split off as I caught up to them, taking the shorter variant trail. I almost envied them. The declines were worse than the uphills anyway. At least in the rain. In the rain, each step was a maybe, every rock a what if. The endless drizzle had made the smooth cobble a warzone; I slipped three times. Each time, I had a split second of panic – if I injured myself, I wouldn’t be able to finish the Camino. All three times I was okay, but I had a newfound twinge in my right knee – too much pressure and it would jerk. Not the best, but manageable.

The upside to such a long walk is that I have a lot of time on my hands – more time than I’ve probably had to date. And I had nothing to do. This was what I was excited about ; left actually completely alone – who was I? I wanted to ponder my Big Questions and figure out where I stood on myself. I wanted to dissect my brain and better understand what made me tick. There’s a saying people who have done the Camino before often reference; that there’s three parts. Body, mind and soul. I was definitely in the body section, so I wasn’t too stressed when none of my big questions even got mentioned.

Today, the walk was just an excuse for daydreaming. It was cold and rainy and I knew that sans the whole scaling mountains thing, my partner would l o v e it here. It was weird, being here without them; sure, it had never been the plan for them to come, but still, there was a sort of,, emptiness when they weren’t around. Long distance was a motherfucker!

Rainy views from the top of one of the hills Jongieux le Haut is just over the next one, and around the corner!
Luckily for me, distraction was possible today. So much gorgeous scenery meant I was making stories at the drop of a hat. I hadn’t imagined this many lines, created this many characters since I was tiny, writing on my dad’s laptop about sweet kingdoms and vegetable kingdoms after watching Wreck It Ralph for the first time. It was,,, nice. I’d missed the little rambly writer in my brain :]

So for the hour leading up to my next stop, I followed a story about lovers and loss and fixing old wrongs and trying to reconnect with people you haven’t seen in years. And I was getting really into it too; the last false-alarm-town had a fountain, and I was irritated because it interrupted me from the story I was trying to figure out. I wanted to know how it ended!

A small pilgrim rest stop (complete with shell)

-Jongieux le Haut-

Eventually, I made it. I put down the slowly expanding book so I could rest, eat a chocolate pastry, air my feet, close my eyes. Except there they were: the fantastic four. I had learned as I walked that they were two French couples (no idea of their names yet), but more than that I had not a clue. They were drinking in the shade, cooling off with water. And here is where I do a very Max thing and get competitive.

I wanted to win.

Now, I also didn’t know what that meant at this point, but I knew I wanted to beat them. And so rather than rest my eyes, I pulled my shoes back on and began to walk once more. Directly uphill. Of course.

I had started my day to the far right of the mountain in the distance- and it was only 1.00pm!
The road is more of a gravel trail that leads you up through vineyards and apple trees to the next town on top of the hill. Here, I half learned from my mistakes and filled up my bottle with ‘eau non controllee’ or ‘we-don’t-really-check-if-it’s-okay-to-drink-but-it’s-probably-fine’. It was c o l d and thank god too, because the sun had just come back out and it was heating up fast. From here, there was an incredible view over the very mountain I had passed this morning – it seemed so far a w a y – and I couldn’t believe I had walked so far already!

On the hills in the distance I could see a steeple – small, stocky and weirdly,,, drawing ?? It was so isolated, the other towns were so far spread out it seemed odd to have a church all alone up here? I wanted to investigate, and thankfully the path led me straight to it.

It was the Chapel of Saint Romain, and it was,, shut. But hey, got me to the top! There was shade, and benches with cold marble countertops and I wanted so badly to sleep, but I could see the four in the distance and I wanted to be the first one to Yenne (it may be stupid, but anything to push me on).

Pilgrims lead the way to Saint-Romain
Now, the chapel was – naturally – on high ground, so reasonably, I was expecting downhill. I was not expecting this downhill. After passing by a warning sign that says after rain the path may “promote dangerous hazards”, you enter a lovely stretch of dirt path that follows the very edge of the mountain – and a 250m drop. Also, it had rained. Also, the path was slanted towards the drop off. Also, I kept slipping.

But at least the Rhône looked great!

After a bit of an adrenaline rush, I made it to the forest, where I could begin the regular downhill and wow that is steep okay. So slick was the mud, and so eroded were the ‘steps’ that each one was really starting to hurt my knee. And then I slipped again, almost pitching off the side and giving me a heart attack. (Fear not, if I ever get lucky enough to deliver the ‘I’m in a hospital seriously injured’ news, I’ll have a way more dramatic way to make it. Today is not that day)

It took me around an hour to carefully navigate down without injuring myself – I may be a little daft, but I am not stupid. I’ve never manoeuvred myself and a heavy lumpy pack around a path this precarious before, and more than once I had to pause, go off the path and reconnect; there simply wasn’t a safe enough way.

Lovely, if you ignore the drop…
Once I emerged at the bottom, however, my legs were jelly (jello, if you’re reading. Also, hi <33). Helpfully, someone had put a sign up to advertise the most lovely, clean, warm looking gîte right next to some benches and I sat and gazed at that thing longingly for a solid ten minutes, just quietly considering. It was out of my way but not that out of the way,,,,, but no. I had only stayed outside one night so far anyway, and I wanted to get to Yenne before the storm broke. The forecast had it pinned down as 100% of Yenne raining by 5.00pm – it was now 3.00pm. And so, I rounded the corner into corn fields, and found my last false-alarm.


-Petit Lagnieu-

I’ll admit, from a distance those dark red thatched roofs really made my heart skip a beat, but alas. Petit Lagnieu. My final frontier before I hit Yenne. Which was, according to the sign, a quick two kilometres! Perfect! Except this was the Via Gebennensis, and things could never be so simple.

Pond with baby ducklings (not pictured)
‘1hr 10min – Yenne – 6km’

Awesome. Turning right, away from the asphalt into the fields, I followed the shells until they led me back to the Rhône. Maybe I could forgive them, just this once. The river to my right, rows and rows of grapes and apple trees to my left, the rain began again. As I wound around and around and around, Yenne started to stretch out into the impossible. My rucksack felt like it weighed a million tonnes, and no readjustments would help. I was at the end of my limits – I should have taken a break earlier.

So self-involved with my boring old whining was I, that I didn’t notice someone coming up the path. His footfalls had melded with mine and the rain, and so when I glanced up to see a man not twenty centimetres from me in neon green I made some sort of strangled noise and ‘dodged’ – but he was already rounding the corner, looking concerned. My heart hammering out of my chest, I heard the giggles of children and the clunk of motorhomes.

 

[sunflowerfunk]

100km Down! (Part Two)

-Yenne-

I arrived on the edge of a bougie-looking campground and immediately began trying to find water. I was about to be out, and it was not ideal. I also needed a toilet, and somewhere to sit and rest and eat. Eventually, my quest for water was unsuccessful, I found a toilet but only noticed it didn’t flush till it was far too late (sorry Yenne), found somewhere to sit but would have to share it with teenage boys (Buckley’s), and eventually stumbled upon a covered picnic table, threw my things all over it, laid down, and passed out for twenty minutes.

When I woke, my stomach was making noises I’d never heard another living creature make. Food it was! I pulled out my baguette (not a French euphemism) and slathered it in pesto ; mmm bon appetite. My last tomato had gotten juiced, and now covered every other item in my little green bag of food. Yum. After an extra apple and a pastry, I was starting to feel alive again.

Doors for the elves ??
Now the next dilemma; where would I sleep? My whole two nights outside, one night inside had worked well for it’s first rotation, and that dictated today was my inside-night. But where to stay? I was still attempting to do this in the cheapest way possible – initially because I didn’t think I could afford it, but now both because it gave me a challenge, and would leave me with enough money for Christmas :] Plus, I still had flights back to Australia to worry about. And rent. But that was a worry for a later time – for now, I needed peace of mind.

Flicking through the guidebook, most of the gîtes were still too expensive for me to justify it this early on, when my body was still only just starting out – I had a feeling as the weariness set in, my frugality would take a (rightful) hit. Even the camping spot I had walked past seemed intense, and expensive (€30 to c a m p?), and I was soon considering another night outside – or walking on – and had just stood up to keep going, when I saw the sign out of the corner of my eye.

‘Kanoti Camping’. And who was beside it? That lying little man and his walking stick. It was pilgrim-friendly. Cue the angelic choir, because as I arrived I saw it had pilgrim rates. €10.50 for a night with access to everything, unrestricted, with no checkout necessary until 4.00pm. Sold!

I fumbled extraordinarily with trying to ask for a place, so bad that she just started talking in English unprompted (noooo). But I managed to get a place, and she told me I could have my pick of the lots. An angel <33 And so I chose a shaded spot under a tree (yes I know there was a storm coming, I was clear from the branches – breathe, family members, breathe), set up my lovely little tent for the first time and breathed a sigh of relief. This was, in a way, inside. And the campsite was beautiful – directly on an inlet from the Rhône, with wide open spaces and a little communal hut.

After getting myself sorted, I moved on to chores. Hand washing all my clothes once more, I hung them out to dry near my tent, praying that by the time the storm came they’d be dry. Organised the last few things inside my tent, then went swimming :]

The water was freezing, and beautiful, and f a s t. I stayed in the inlet, away from the currents, but every so often my feet would brush the bottom and I’d feel the surge. I got a few odd looks, and I got the feeling it wasn’t toocommon to wild swim here (it wasn’t). I had checked beforehand to make sure it wasn’t illegal or anything, and everything seemed relatively okay. There was the standard ‘don’t swim if you can’t swim’, and ‘be aware of your surroundings’, but I could stand everywhere so! Everything was good, and I felt calm and clean and refreshed again. As the first few droplets began to hit, I wandered back into the camp and dried off.

Happy belated anniversary to the couple from the cups in the camp kitchen <33
My dinner was one for kings; stale baguette, pesto and some burger sauce I found in the communal fridge. I ate and watched the clouds darken, and the thunder and lightning begin to start. I pulled my clothes down, shoved them into my sleeping bag – they’d dry overnight. And then, I sat on the grass outside, waiting for it to break. At this point, it was already 9.00pm, and there had been no real rain, but the lightning was so bright and the thunder so loud that surely it must be coming soon. After an hour, I gave up. I was too tired to wait, and I’d just as soon wake up to it in the morning anyway.

So I laid with my legs against cold washing, and the wind blowing between the layers of the tent, and I dozed. It smelt like rain, like the verge of something. And I was out like a light.

---

Day 5 – August 25th

19.6km

~ 103.5km total

€23.00

~ €115.41 total

 

[sunflowerfunk]

Day 6 : Lost In Translation (And Fog)
-Yenne-

I struggled to sleep last night – after five nights of sleeping outside (and in a bed), my legs felt trapped by the tent, limbs fighting for space against my pack. I joined the living at around 10.00am, ready for the rain. But,,, it was dry?

After all that lead-up, the storm had never broke! I could’ve stayed an extra night outside – but oh well. I had left my powerbank on charge overnight, and it was now just over half-full – I sat in the communal hut and had my last pastry for breakfast, and thought about what to do. My feet were officially aching, and my legs weren’t too hot either.

I really wanted a rest day. But I also wanted to celebrate a week of walking with a rest. And I had to make 20km days each day. But it was so nice here. Back and forth and back and forth and then finally, an hour later I had made up my mind. I would carry on today, and tomorrow, then celebrate a week. As I stood up, the storm broke.

Fuck me. I volleyed my things between my tree and the hut, drying off my towel and attempting to be even remotely dry. Naturally, my clothes from last night were still soaked, but I pulled them on regardless. They wouldn’t have stayed dry for long anyway. Then, I was off. Well, sort of.

My next shopping opportunity was around 30km away, in Saint-Genix-sur-Guiers, and at the pace I was making, that didn’t seem likely for today, especially considering it was already 11.30am and I had yet to leave. Not very pilgrim of me! So my first stop was the shops, around a kilometre off-route. This time I did put the rain jacket back on, considering I could officially call it bucketing and I was not in the mood to be soaked to the bone already.

Everyone’s favourite decoration is back!
I was soon distracted again by a rack of postcards outside the local newsagents – until this point, finding cards had been much harder than I was expecting. I quickly bought a small, hand-drawn one to send home to my partner :] My original plan of a card per town was proving to not be entirely accurate, but I vowed not to leave the bigger towns until finding one from now on. How else could I send all my lame cheesy thoughts across the sea!?

Eventually though, I made it to Carrefour Market, which was the first supermarket I had entered,,,, since America actually probably. Little overwhelming, especially when you arrive sopping with a massive pack. Not quite the local get-up. I went a little overboard here, and bought myself one of the finer things in life; a litre of ‘multi-fruit vitamin juice’. Crazy, I know, but sometimes you need to splash out a few euros!!

Alongside that, I bought some apples, burger buns (infinitely easier to transport than baguettes), cheese (finally it was cold and would k e e p), cherry tomatoes, gherkins and kinder chocolate. And an iced tea. And socks (score).

Last views of Yenne
It was only as I was leaving that I realised : I had nowhere to put any of this. My raincover barely fit as it was! So we had the first reconfiguration to handle. I found an old bike shelter, laid my pack down and crouched above the sopping floor, ready to real-life-Tetris the fuck out of this shopping. And real-life-Tetris I did, even if I had to assemble a sandwich then put it on the wet sidewalk for a bit before I ate it (it was delicious). A strong success, even if I sculled half of the gherkin water – to lighten the pack of course – not realising these were extra vinegar and almost burnt my tastebuds clean off.

Finally, after much stress and re-assembling, I was off. And then I got sick of the jacket again. But then I was off. And I forgot to get water. Damn! At 1.00pm, I finally left Yenne. I was horrific at this whole pilgrim thing; at the start I had had big dreams of becoming a morning person but it just wasn’t happening. But even so, I was keeping up with the people I’d seen in the first few days – and as the saying goes, slow and steady ,,, Not that we were racing. At least not now they were ahead!

Twin settlements on the ridgeline, seperated by the Rhône
My goal for the today was just to walk some distance. I knew it was late, and I just wanted to push myself a little – I wouldn’t stop until I’d reached my first town, and after that we’d see. It was a 9km stretch between me and the town of Jagdhütte, and all I had to do was make it there. I could do that! So I followed the shells uphill.

Last bit of gravel for a while – onto rock
I would feel pretty confident in saying today was the most beautiful day so far. The rain had petered out to a drizzle, and the clouds were rolling down the mountains like waterfalls. It was cold, but I was moving and warm. I soon came to the Chapel of Notre-Dame de la Montagne, which was again closed. I didn’t mind so much – the churches were interesting, but this wasn’t religious to me. And history was also interesting, but the real magic to me was the trees.

Autumn felt real here, marked my oranges and yellows and reds and browns I’ve only truly seen in movies, and as I walked, I truly felt like I was in Frozen II (I couldn’t wait for Christmas <33). Once again, the Rhône was kind enough to accompany me this morning. It poked out between trees and rumbled along, far below me as I made my way into the sky.

Real Autumn was so pretty !
As I walked, I had been mumbling to myself again, trying to catch the ink from yesterday’s story – the lovers in the rain, tea in cold hands – and I got a little too distracted. My foot slipped on a smooth rock, and I pitched – directly onto my knees, overlooking the abyss. Oh. I pulled myself back up, and leant heavily towards my left, forcing silence on myself until the path evened out again. Now I clocked why I had seen no-one – who would climb this mountain, the most acute to scale up and down for most of the Gebennensis, in a storm?

But I was still nothing if not stubborn, and I refused to turn back. 9km was all I needed. Soon I came to Belvédère Pierre Châtel, a small viewpoint that boasted brilliant views – or at least I assumed it would, were you not there on a day like today. The rain had eased, the thunder broken in the next valley, but the mist and clouds were immoveable.

Looking straight down over the edge, 860m up
I was beginning to lose the shells. Hard enough as they can be to spot on their own, usually no bigger than a palm, in the mist I was losing all direction. Not the best, but I pressed on, because of course I did, and writing these at the end of the day is always so funny because w h y did I do that?

On and on I walked, and the mist became thicker and the ground more slippery, and I became more and more excited. Something about this felt different – knowing I only had 9km (hell, by now it was probably only 7km) to go, I had a spring in my step.

Signposts in the fog
I was going up and down mountains like nothing, sipping my tea as I did (whoever invented Fuze peach iced tea could have my firstborn and their pick of any of my other loved ones), and in general loving everything. It was much easier to walk in the cold, especially as there wasn’t really anywhere to break.

Gradually, I clawed my way back into the story, lived the lives of the couple together until they resolved everything, until I had my answer. I passed mushrooms and lichen and moss and water and thought of him for hours. The rain was not helping my daydreaming, and I was aching for December.

‘What a stupid lamb’/’What a sick, masochistic lion’
But it would not be December for a while yet, and so I preoccupied myself with the small. I saw not one but twored squirrels, ate some kinder chocolate and watched the cloud front obscure almost everything. For hours, I was doing amazing. More often than not, it would be a tall yellow signpost telling me a direction, then nothing for forty minutes, then the next.

‘St-Maurice-de-Rotherens – 4hrs 50min’

Big ol’ orange slugs :]
‘St-Maurice-de-Rotherens – 3hrs 30min’

‘St-Maurice-de-Rotherens – 2hrs 10min’

‘St-Maurice-de-Rotherens – 0hrs 55min’

But then, in the last fifty minutes, something shifted. Suddenly, I was petrified. I had no idea what changed, but at one point, I paused to unscrew my bottle and there was a snap of twigs directly behind me and I spun around – nothing. And I was quiet, and so were the woods. Not a single thing moved, but it was like the breathing was everywhere. I fucking hated it. I felt like I was being watched, but I couldn’t tell from where. And I was most likely the only one on the mountain. If I vanished, no one would know.

Eerie ,,
For about twenty minutes, my true-crime infested brain took over, and I was convinced I was being followed. Remember that thing I told you the other day, about footsteps sounding like voices? Sucks a lot worse alone in the fog on top of a mountain. I was freaking out, generally shakey and – this was the kicker – reallygoddamn delirious. Evidently, when I’m tired, and I walk a lot, when I pause, my vision does that movie-zoom thing, where it pauses then r u s h e s forward really fast and leaves the edged fizzling. I had noticed it a little over the past few days, but heightened with fear it was worse.

Final stretch of the fog (finally)
But then – safety! The sun came back. Small spotlights of warmth dappled the floor as I stumbled even further up – slipping as I went; the ground was really wet this high up – and I couldn’t remember why I was afraid at all. Down, past tall pine trees that reminded me of Washington and sent me into another yearning tailspin, and then finally, towards a well-walked grass path. I had been walking for well over four hours, and I still hadn’t reached the town.

Curse my unfitness! I generally felt quite terrible about myself and my abilities, and was still in a self-hate spiral when I passed the first few people. What?? They weren’t carrying packs or water, which meant – I was close! They must have come from Jagdhütte!! I stumbled along, past horses and cows – definitely close now – until I saw the roofs. Thank God that was over and I could relax and – you’re kidding.

The Rhône was back :]

-St-Maurice-de-Rotherens-

Where the hell was St-Maurice-de-Rotherens? Was I stillnot there? I was only on the outskirts yet, so I kept walking, out of one village and into the next, where I finally found a bench and sat directly on the dripping wood. I was dead. And I still hadn’t reached Jadghütte :[

Now, the Germans are probably laughing to themselves, or confused, or both, but either way, here is where I realised my mistake. There was no town. Jadghütte is ‘hunting lodge’. I had passed it in the fog in my first two hours. I had walked for five hours non-stop.

But that still left one question; where was St-Maurice-de-Rotherens?? As it turns out, it was a long goddamn way further than I thought I’d make it today. Anyone remember my record of 4km before a break? Today I had walked 19.8km. Hell of a way to one-up myself.

‘Bench for pilgrims’
But I was not quite done yet : the actual central area of St-Maurice-de-Rotherens was another twenty minutes away. And so on I walked, intent on finding a picnic table and some water. Having found one of the two, I tore into a sandwich and drank my juice, then stretched out my poor aching legs. To what should be no-one’s surprise, today I definitely had blisters. One on my pinky, which, I am not shy to say, was the fattest goddamn blister I’d seen to date. Foul. I was so excited to pop it <33

Second skin on, I relaxed – then thought the better of it. It was now around 4.30pm, and I had no plans for the night. It was going to storm again tonight (although I did not entirely trust the weather reports after last night), and I could spend the night in the tent, but I’d prefer some warmth. Rain also complicated the whole drying clothes thing, and generally made the insulation vanish.

So, I mustered all my courage and, for the first time, called a local half-hotel-half-gîte. And she answered. I panicked, forgetting everything, and just sat there like a stunned mullet until she asked if I was okay. Yep yep totally fine just all of my worst nightmares coming true – bonjour :]

She did not have any pilgrim accomodation available anymore, and too late I realised that was because her pilgrim package included dinner. Strangling Mr. Cynic with one hand, I dialled again with the other to ask about any rooms at all. This time, she didn’t pick up. Ouch! Mr Cynic was in control.

‘This is why we don’t call places !! Everyone is scary !! You’re so bad at this !! How could anyone expect you to handle yourself !! Useless !!’ As my optimist attempted to figure out other options, he wouldn’t shut up, and eventually I just had to pack up shop and keep walking. We’d sleep in the first good field, promised the optimist. Ha!

Walking through Gréslin

-Côte Envers-

In the 4km between St-Maurice-de-Rotherens and Côte Envers, I passed seven almost-perfect fields. In each one, I found some flaw; too close to the path, too isolated, too steep, too flat, too sunken, too hard, too soft. At each, I knew I could find something better. I couldn’t tell which half of me was in control, the true cynical optimist experience – “everything is bad and terrible but also we’ll be okay”.

Passing small towns of Malbuisson and Gréslin, I seriously considered a park bench with my tent covering thrown over the top. It was 8.16pm, and the storm was forecasted to break at 9.00pm. This time, I really believed it; the clouds were black, and the wind smelt electric. But no – there would be something better. It was my first real ‘stuck in a pinch’ moment, reasoned my optimist. That was exciting!

Birds flocking over the fields
As I passed Côte Envers, I groaned aloud seeing the place that hadn’t picked up the second time. Oh man oh man what I would do for a shower – I was shivering with sweat and rain. But my cynic wouldn’t allow it, not tonight. So on I walked. Past another meadow – too close to the houses. Another – wrong plants (that time I knew who had control). Another – fresh tire tracks.

Finally, a kilometre down the road, I settled. This would do. It was over an embankment by the road, so the cars couldn’t see me, and neither could any nearby houses, and yes it was on a slant but I could handle that. It was 8.38pm. I set up faster than I’ve ever set up before, and as I zipped the outside door at 8.49pm, all hell broke loose.

One last glimpse of the sun ..
Thunder, massive, like mountains caving in, while lightning lit the trees up behind me, send skittering shadows along my tent. I barely slept a wink, the angle so steep that each breath would send me slipping down, and the rain barraged the sides of my tent with such vigour that the broke free from the straps and sent water flicking inside. And all the while, I kept hearing footsteps and breath, animal or human, and dogs howled over the hill. Not an ideal cacophony, and I shivered long into the morning.

---

Day 6 – August 26th

Yenne to Côte Envers

25.4km

~ 128.9km total

€24.50

~ €139.91 total

 

[sunflowerfunk]

Day 7 : A Carnival and Not Much Else
-Côte Envers-

It was with a start that I awoke this morning – I had breathed a little too deep, slid down. It was 6.55am. I was wrecked. I had yet to have a good nights sleep this week, what with the writing until 1.00am most mornings, and after last night, it had all finally caught up. Happy week’s worth of walking! I was having a rest day.

The borderline between the fog and I
But I couldn’t really, not here. Not on an uncomfortable hill, with a slightly barraged bright red tent, not in the daylight. And so I got up, pulled on my disgusting wet clothes, shivered, and began my morning. First job was repacking; wrangling all my various things into all their various compartments. A word of warning to all those considering the Camino – you will unpack and repack everything you own at least once a day. If you have a water bladder, I’d estimate a solid three to four.

The second was the one I was least looking forward to; packing the tent. It had calmed in the past few hours, slowed to a drizzle, but standing in the cold drizzle to pack a wet tent was not usually high on the list of things I want to do. But I did! And it sucked and by the time I set off walking downhill – I’d deal with hygiene when I wasn’t freezing next to a road thanks – I was positively vibrating.

I would soon warm up though, the walking ensured that. And I mean, hey, the upside to pulling on soaking clothes? No one can tell how much you’ve sweat.

This morning was another fog-filled one, and it was, like yesterday, gorgeous. It felt like something out of a film, some mildly uncanny mundane piece about nothing in particular – I loved it. Banshees of Inisherin without the missing fingers, and with a little more rain.

Oh to live alone at the top of a mountain,,,
The walk to Saint-Genix-sur-Guiers was a brisk fifty minute wander through isolated houses in varying states of disrepair and fences leading into the ether.

Talk about a fucking story backdrop! My writer was going wild – magic and misery, fights and reconnection. What could the fog hold for the newest charcters? The lovers could safely be laid to rest in my mind, their conclusion reached after hours of obsession. Who was next?

Lonely fence :[

-Saint-Genix-sur-Guiers-

Soon, I neared the outskirts, and again turned away from the shells. I wanted to sleep the entire day, and I didn’t care where – I just needed rest. I arrived at the campsite, finding it was directly near a small carnival being set up in the rain. Tired and numb, I did the tourist sin (it was a bigger town), and went straight to ‘Excusez moi, parlez-vous anglais?’. Thankfully, he did.

I had hoped to book a little one room pod for the night, but the last one had been reserved not an hour ago. Damn. Camping it is! The rain had really started to come down again, and he must have seen something on my face, because he told me to sit down for a few minutes while he checked something out. In the promised few minutes, he came back and waved me over. For €20, he explained, I could have use of the caravan in the back – it had a bed, and a roof. I would be away from the noise, and could leave whenever I felt like tomorrow. For only €3 more than a campsite, it sounded like a hell of a deal.

The caravan was small, but perfect. It had a bed. Nothing else mattered. Granted,,, it had hospital grade paper sheets but beggars can’t be choosers and by god was I begging. I put my bag down, flung my gross wet clothes to one side, pulled on my dry ones and went directly to sleep.

When I woke up three hours later, I was starving. I hadn’t eaten since yesterday at that bench and it had caught up to me. I finished off my juice, ate my apple, had a sandwich and a pastry. Finally, the growling stopped. Tomorrow I would need to restock on my way out of town, but for now I could rest. My plan was to do exactly nothing <33

I dozed on and off for a few hours, mentally listing the chores I would eventually need to do. I had seen that they had a dryer – I would be able to have warm, clean clothes!! But again, that could wait. I also needed to shower, get clean. But I was thinking maybe that could also wait. Until tonight, or maybe even the morning. I wasn’t sure yet, but I didn’t want to leave the caravan.

Eventually, I did wake up. I started one of my chores; catching up on the blogs. I had been too tired to write the past two nights, and my phone had been struggling with the heat and humidity. After a few hours, I was back to today, and the responsibilities that came with it.

At one point I pulled on my shoes, walked to the closest shops, found out that they were closed for the carnival, took it as a sign from God, walked back to the caravan, and went straight back to sleep.

I cannot explain just how welcome a bed was, but my bones were aching. Towards the end of the day I almost wished I had kept walking – I was bored. Not much story potential here (I tried). But! At least I could listen to music again :]

As it started to get dark, the noise began. Aah. The carnival. It was bigger than I expected, it’s cascading neons spilling over into the campsite. Louder too; I hadn’t realised how big Saint-Genix-sur-Guiers was, and it seemed like everyone was in attendance. I sat on the caravan steps and listened to the screams of people on rides, of the steady clunk-clunk-clunk of horrifyingly designed ferris wheels. It was like I could see the zip ties.

Eventually, when the nostalgia got a little too out of hand, I stood. It was time for chores. First up was washing – this place even had warm water! The first I’d touched in days; I wanted to curl up in the laundry sink and stay there forever. But I refrained, stayed shaking in the wind. I rinsed and rinsed and rinsed – the water stayed brown. The ups and downs of hiking! After a time, I decided they were clean enough for me, wrung them out and tossed them into the dryer.

After fumbling with my coins for what felt like an eternity, a lovely man named Sam came to help me. He was rinsing off his child in the sinks, and explained I had to t r a d e the money for a ‘coin’ (non literal). Aah. I made the swap, and talked with him for awhile. His kid was wide eyed in the warm water, chubby little hands grabbing at the tap water and the sky and me. I could fit in a sink once – how completely surreal.

He’d grow up and love and lose and give up and make art and be human – but for now he was a little humanoid blob overjoyed in a sink. Adorable. I love kids !!

Fireworks over the caravan :]
Forty minutes later, I returned to wet laundry. The dryer had done almost nothing. Damn! Air dry it was – fingers crossed it was warm enough in my little caravan for it to work. As I walked back to said little caravan, the bangs began. Fireworks.

They were everywhere, arcing up through the night. The conversations fell silent, and I watched kids trickle out from cabins and stand open-mouthed, staring at the neon sky. The blues and greens and gold shimmer across their eyes, light up the ground. I’m laughing only because I know I do the same.

And it was here, in the campsite driveway, holding my wet laundry, watching the fireworks, that the distance really hit. I missed my partner so much it was unreal, missed lame adventures and getting to do the boring everyday things together. They were always on my mind, but this was like a gut-punch. December couldn’t come fast enough – I needed physical affection, needed subtle reassurance. Needed silly little carnivals with really intense French announcers.

To avoid actually crying in the middle of the street, I walked away and finished watching them from my caravan steps, all weepy and cold. But there was a temporary cure for the heartpain – Hozier. I listened to him on as I hung my washing out to dry, and ate dinner. Listened to him croon as I cut up an orange and tried not to think about timelines, and university. I’d listened to him for hours already today, and soon he was singing me softly to sleep.

---

Day 7 – August 27th

Côte Envers to Saint-Genix-sur-Guiers

5.1km

~ 134km total

€24.00

~ €163.91 total

 

[sunflowerfunk]

Day 8 : The Apple Doesn't Fall Far from the Wurfzimmer
-Saint-Genix-sur-Guiers-

Feeling grouchy but refreshed after my sad little sleep and general day of self-pity and naps, I woke up to find my clothes dripping onto the floor. If anything, they were now more wet. Resigned to another morning of freezing cold, I tugged them on anyway, wincing as the sopping fabric hit skin. My teeth were chattering, and it was only 19* – it was not boding well for winter me, all things considering.

I got ready quickly and left – I had overslept slightly and didn’t want to miss the opening times for shops (I was ravenous). It was a Monday, so most places would either be shut completely or have weird reduced hours – I would never understand the French.

Goodbye, little caravan!
I was out of my lovely little caravan by 9.00am, and stopped by the nearby market, which was thankfully open, struggled with decisions for far too long, and left at 10.00am, €37.13 lighter with an umbrella. And food, of course. But the main thing was the umbrella!

From there, I followed the shells out of Saint-Genix-sur-Guiers, found myself a little bench by the Rhône, and made myself a knock-off nutella sandwich. Delicious. Suitably sugar-high, I followed the river again – this time significantly less blue – until it split away from me and I returned to farmland.

This section of the walk was rather uneventful, mostly flat and through fields of crops. I ate a peach or two, hosted some mental debates to figure out my Opinions on things (I always won), counted steps till I got sick of it, drank an odd but delicious lychee basil seed drink and eventually made it.

Around 60% of my day looks like this!

-Les Abrets-

Around 15km from my little caravan was the town of Les Abrets, a municipality that – for the Via Gebennensis – rather large. Meaning it had (several) restaurants, a bank with an ATM, and a few extra shops just for funsies. It also had an open toilet and a place to refill water which ruled because I had run out about ten minutes after leaving this morning.

Ingenious manoeuvring,,,
It was also – and this is really important to note – absolutely fucking frigid. I was shivering like nothing else, and pulling on my jumper to warm up was how I remembered it was also still wet. So I sat beside a storm drain, shaking and pathetic, eating my lunch. Today, that meant some cheap fake Brötchen that tasted like the ones you can buy from the fridge in Coles (delicious), pesto, classic, some cherry tomatoes and – this is where it gets interesting – local specialty cheese. My inner German had finally cracked, I suppose, and when he saw some Comté from the region, grabbed it faster than the speed of light. I was a little nervous, but it was absolutely fucking yum; miles better than the terrible sliced cheese I had been eating the last few days.

As I ate, two new faces visited me – a pair of older women, with whom I had no common language, who really wanted to know if I camped outside the other night in the rain. We had a mini-conversation over google translate, then they waved goodbye to find a restaurant.

Crossing train tracks over Les Abrets :]
Now, in order for you to acutely understand the vibes up until this point, I need to divulge some very important information. This storm drain was located fairly centrally in the town, and shared a wall with the church. The church of Les Abrets is, without a doubt, the funniest place I’ve made it to thus far.

As I sat with my back against the shared wall, looking at the empty streets of the town – it was around 1.30pm, so naturally the French had vanished – the church was absolutely PUMPING hit after hit. They echoed down the alleyways, and I could not imagine ever being in a bad mood here.

After drawing me in with Lewis Capaldi and Somebody to Love, they proceeded to play, in this exact order,

1. Where Is the Love? by the Black Eyed Peas,

2. Where Is the Love? by the Black Eyes Peas (again),

3. I’m Still Standing by Elton John,

4. Viva La Vida by Coldplay,

5. Rolling in the Deep by Adele and then,

6. Where Is the Love? AGAIN

With the dulcet tones of will.i.am and fergie rattling around in my brain, I left Les Abrets and returned once more to the crops.

Here was where it got Fun (lie). Up until now, I’d been explaining away any aches and discomforts with my pack as being in the ‘body’ stage. While that may be true, I also needed to accept the second possibility; that maybe it was just too goddamn heavy!

With the addition of my 3.5L of water and general food for the day, I was carrying somewhere between 18kg and 20kg. Ideally, packs are meant to be at around 10-15% of your body weight, which would put mine somewhere around 11kg. I was just a little over. Only problem was that I couldn’t see anything I could give up! The closest thing to a luxury I had brought was a tiny film camera that weighed almost nothing – everything else had a practical purpose.

Lead members of local boyband The Cows
Cursing my father and grandfather and myself and our general stupid generational hoarding, I lugged it up the almost vertical climb to Valencogne, grumbling and groaning the whole way up. I passed sign after sign after sign for a beautiful looking gîte, but it was still too early to stop. Damn!

It was here that I met The Cows. Hearing distant thunder, I’d turned to my left, only to discover the thunder was merely the rumble of hooves – quite a lot of them. Twenty odd,,, teenaged cows (they definitely weren’t calves anymore) ran right up to me, eyeing me and sniffing, bellowing. Bit intense, I joked to no one. They followed me up the hill, until the end of their fence-line, then watched me vanish into the distance. I laughed the whole way down.

Tonight the plan was to stay inside again; it had been raining on and off all day (thank god for that umbrella, I was dry and not that sweaty) and another storm front was due to hit tonight. Plus, again, fucking freezing. All the places to stay in Les Abrets were expensive as h e l l though, and that just was not going to happen. I’d managed to find a reasonably priced room in Valencogne, but they hadn’t picked up when I’d called. I figured I’d at least give it a shot, and if not, I’d stay somewhere nearby as there were a few places around.

Looking back down to Les Abrets

-Valencogne-

After an hour and a half, I arrived, utterly wiped. I wandered down a few streets trying to find the place, almost knocking on several of the wrong doors (nightmare), but eventually found it. 126! As I walked up, I noticed the car in the driveway had grass growing over the wheels. Ah. And the lights were off. Aah. And there was dust on the laundry pegs. Aaah. They were definitely not here.

I knocked anyway. Waited ten seconds. Rang the doorbell. Waited another ten. Resisted the urge to run away. Knocked again. Nah they were definitely gone. I turned away again and began making my way up to the centre of town, to the church, where I could figure out what to do next.

NOOOOOOOO
The church was cool and old and a church and that’s all I really processed, and I stayed on its’ steps for the most part, hosting yet another internal debate, but eventually it was just too goddamn cold, and I caved and entered the doors. Thankfully, I didn’t instantaneously burst into flames because that would’ve really put a damper on things. Instead, I just breathed in that sweet sweat stagnant sweaty communion air and relished in not being dipped in ice wind.

Now, I had a few options. The first was to stay nearby, as planned – but everywhere was either booked, or costed €80. No thank you! Onto the next. I could,,, stay here? Technically I didn’t know if churches locked overnight, but I’d read several pilgrims accounts who recall sleeping outside/inside churches with no problem. That one was a little less my style, but if push came to shove I’d sleep in the shadow of the lord god bless <33 (As long as it stayed warm and I could escape before anyone arrived in the morning)!

Alas, the time chose for me. It was only 5.45pm, and it wouldn’t be dark for hours. I had waited on the steps too long – I couldn’t justify staying for much longer. So the third it was. My third option was very smart, and it was to simply continue walking. Had I mentioned that storm that was coming yet? There was no accomodation I could possibly get to tonight, so that would leave wildcamping or finding another church. It was due to break at 7.00pm – about an hour from now. Maybe, if I was fast enough, I could outrun it.

Suddenly boosted with adrenaline, I tugged my shoes back on and stood on my aching feet – onwards and upwards! Literally. Unfortunately, I was not done with hills yet. Every bone in my body ready to give out, I follow the signs to Le Pin, just about 8km from here.

Sure, I may be stressed and desperately trying to outrun the storm, but funny mirror :]

-???-

I don’t make it. After forty minutes, the rain begins to mount. My feet are ruined, and my knees have got the shakes. I’ve passed a few dead cats on the side of the road, which hasn’t exactly brightened my mood. It’s cold, and windy, and rainy, so I begin my search for the perfect field. Like the day before last, I pass by several ‘almosts’; a few too close to houses, one because I couldn’t figure out if it counted as private or not, one because it was too exposed to the wind, etcetera etcetera. Eventually though, again like the day before last, I find one in the nick of time.

Always a good sign,,,
After near continuous rain for a half hour, it abates as I arrive in a field – not perfect by any means, visible from the motorbike/walking trail, but enough for tonight. I set up as the drizzle begins, and as I finally get everything inside and brace for impact (!!!!!!!); nothing happens. The rain clouds pass over, leaving my hill intact. Fuck me. I could’ve made it to Le Pin! Even so, I stay put. It’s comfortable here, and there’s still a chance of rain yet.

Also, I cannot be fucked to walk another step.

So, for once, tonight can be an early night. It’s 8.48pm, my blog is written (hello you! we meet again <33) and my freezing body is trapped inside a terrible sleeping bag – I’ll definitely need a new one for the winter. I’m sore, and I’ll be uncomfortable in the morning, but for now, I’m on top of a hill in the middle of France, eating cheese and tomatoes and watching the rain fall in the valleys below. Could always be worse :]

Perfect cheese-eating views <33

---

Day 8 – August 28th

26.1km

~ 160.1km total

€37.13

~ €201.04 total

 

[sunflowerfunk]

Day 9 : Living the Dream (Feat. Bad Financial Decisions)
-???-

So, I know everyone loves hearing this, but strap in, because this morning was a bit of an emotional rollercoaster. I had struggled to sleep quite a bit, not least of all because it was six fucking degrees, and despite having my thermal fleece, socks, sleeping bag, gloves, pants, and beanie on, was still so cold I had to drape my sweaty shirt over my face in order to sleep. Doesn’t rank exceptionally high on most-restful-or-nice-smelling-nights-ever, but at least I don’t have a cold.

But also due mostly to continuously hearing footsteps, scratching and weird whistling. After many hours of on-off panic, I eventually fell asleep gripping my metal waterbottle, trying to convince myself I’d heard footsteps the night of the storm too, and it was nothing. Probably just rain and wind. And again, when I woke up, everything was fine! I mean sure, that odd smell was still there, but that was probably nothing!

So – as it turns out, it was something. It was a stack of several dead animals and old chunks of pig skin. About a metre from my tent. Where they definitely had not been last night. Rightio.

I packed my shit up with more enthusiasm and get-me-the-hell-out-of-here than I had previously thought possible, realised the tent peg closest to my head was gone, almost stood on another dead thing I hadn’t seen, clocked that were definitely footprints around then absolutely booked it the fuck out of there. Glancing behind my shoulder for the rest of the morning with a firm grip on that waterbottle, I rambled on down into Le Pin.

Father, son, and the Holy Ghost
Oh and for the record? I passed a perfect completely secluded meadow like the one on the second day not 100m down the path. So close, but s o far. Yesterday evidently had just not been my lucky day!


-Le Pin-

After that general debacle, I wasn’t too keen on the idea of staying outside again. My skin was crawling and I was still a little shaken; nothing like a bit of ‘hey y’know those worst irrational fears you were imagining? they were real‘ to just really make anxiety easier to handle and reign in.

So as I stopped for breakfast – cheese, tomatoes and bread, classic – I flipped along my guidebook to see if I could find somewhere. Nada. They all seemed to be full already (somehow), or were too close – I still wanted to hit 30km today. I would camp if I had to, but I really needed a good nights sleep – it was meant to get drizzly again and being tired on slippery slopes was not a fantastic idea. And call me crazy, but I wasn’t ready to bank on sleeping soundly outside.

Outside the church!
After a good thirty minutes, I gave up. It was still early yet, and I didn’t want to waste too much time; let’s get moving. From Le Pin, you go up and down a few hills, cross a few streams, go through a field of corn or two, the usual. Except today, I was unusual. That tweaked knee was really ramping it up today, and my legs were killing me.

Guess the body stage had truly hit – honestly pretty happy with a day nine! To start, I had stopped every few kilometres to get them to relax a little, but that was doing more harm than good. Actually concerned now, I took a bit of a longer break outside of Blaune, stretched and massaged and the like. Somehow, that also made it worse. Two days of 25+ kilometres were coming back to bite me in the arse. I was not yet as fit as I thought.

More little abandoned houses!
So, only a few kilometres from Le Grand-Lemps, the next ‘bigger’ town, I staggered on. I’d find a place there tonight. Actually, shit. It was already midday – most stopped for the day at around 2.00pm. Places would be filling up. Except, double ‘actually, shit’; there were no gîtes in Le Grand-Lemps, it was on a ‘talk to the locals and see who’ll take you in’ basis, and I’d take the tent and weird animal-killer in a heartbeat thanks. Was there anywhere else I could stay?

Now, would everyone who knows me at all please sit down for this next bit; I am about to spend an extortionate (for me) amount of money for no real reason.

After a little bit of digging, I found that there was actually absolutely fucking nothing,,, bar one. A private villa (???) with swimming pool, and – and this was the kicker – a fully stocked kitchen. I was sold. I needed warm food, besides the burger in Ètang Bleu I hadn’t had a cooked meal since the 18th. Plus a swim and a shower? God. And my grandmother would be happy – I’d finally have a bed for my aching bones :]

I was able to justify the price purely because I was now lumbering uphill in such pain I was almost crying, and I just needed to collapse in the warmth. So I booked it. Oh, Euro to Australian dollar conversion, how I despise you.

Let’s play: is it crop circles, or just France?

-Le Grand-Lemps-

The ‘entry’ to Le Grand-Lemps is evil – it’s situated about 3km outside of the actual town. Those final three were possibly the most difficult of my adventure so far, each muscle screaming in protest. I was also mentally wrecked, and didn’t have much in the way of distraction. It was simply walk and arrive, no other choice. It was straight downhill, with smooth, slippery rocks and slick mud everywhere. It was slow, miserable going, and a few times I had to stop my legs from buckling. What the hell was going on??

Little hard to go off course,,, but I manage :]
The only upside is that to get to the villa (insane thing to say), my path would trek through the centre, and the shops. I needed to stock up, both for the morning and for tonight, to finally be able to cook (I was so excited it was unbelievable). So in I went, and man, if I wasn’t already on the verge on tears I would be now.

Lidl.

I walked past the packaged bread, hoping to find a baguette, and found something infinitely better. Brötchen. Real ones too, seeds and kernels and brown, topped with poppyseed. I was ready to stake my life on this Lidl in the middle of this odd little town (it’s like a Dr. Seuss line). God bless the Europeans!

I bought far too many (four), and a baguette (I had big plans), then continued on my loop. Tomatoes, red onions, mushrooms, capsicum, zucchini. Considered a cauliflower, decided against it. Funghi pasta, some cream. Mozzarella. Brown onions. Garlic. Yum yum yum yum my stomach was already growling. Kinder chocolate too, of course, and some juice. How adult. I was set. I went a little overboard, forgot I was only cooking for one, but today, for some reason, I didn’t mind. Money would come back, it was worth it. Who was I?

The only problem with all this? I still had a kilometre and a half to walk. Plus my food. Oh god. After an embarrassing amount of time, I met the gates. After an even more embarrassing amount of time, I figured out how they opened – by pressing the button. Shocker!

The owners were lovely – although so would I if I got €100 every time someone stayed in what some may call a villa, but I would call about half a granny flat. Even so, they brought over a microwave from the garden (?) despite my protests, and invited me to share a beer – or a juice. Unfortunately, I was still dripping in dirt and sweat and tears and, inadvertently, cow shit, so I sadly had to turn down the juice with the funny French people. Another day!

Final, final stretch!
And so started my first mission: Get Clean. I chucked every gross wet mouldy-smelling item of clothing in my bag in the washing machine, and opened up my bag to hopefully air it out, because it was starting to smell rankafter a good four or five days of holding said clothing. Then I got in the shower for what can only be described as an eon. I had the water on the hottest possible setting and yeah, sure, I ended it head on my knees sitting on the floor for ten minutes in the burning heat but y’know what? I’d say that’s probably none of your business anyway <33

Finally, I got out, bones suitably pounded and muscles vaguely relaxed (my shoulders were beyond help I’d already long given up), and hung my washing out to dry. This time, please let it work. Allegedly it’d be sunny tomorrow morning, and I was praying for a <Camino miracle> to really get the spirituality flowing. I felt very unpilgrim standing in the middle of my private residence for the night, ready to be loud and alone, but I figured my nights outside made up for the fact. I was at a net zero with God and the pilgrimage I think.

Speaking of pilgrimage, I realised – as I lazily leafed through guidebooks and dozed on the lounge – that maybe this could be a celebration as well. Today, I was officially halfway through the Via Gebennensis. I had walked more than 175km over the past nine days, and was making good time too. Most (according to my guidebook) completed it in 18 days – as much as I had laboured on about my unfitness and taken essentially a full day off, I was halfway done at the halfway mark. That was big for me :]

It also meant there was a possibility I wouldn’t actually need the full 109 days I had left, but that could come later. Anyway, to avoid you and I falling asleep on this extraordinarily comfortable couch, it’s 6.00pm – time to cook dinner.

Halfway done :]
Now, I’m not one to nitpick (sometimes), and I knew that people simply experienced the world differently and we should treat others with respect and understanding regardless of our small personal differences, but to me, calling a kitchen “fully stocked” when you don’t have fucking spoons should be cause for a night in the gaol. Steadily realising this would be a very rough dinner, I started chopping straight onto those kitchen counters babey!

And here is where something else exciting happened; I became independent. Turns out daydreaming and dancing alone around a not-fully-stocked kitchen you paid too much for to shitty music and cooking your own food does feel as good as my earlier prepubescent daydreams hoped it would. And somewhere between caramelising my onions and sitting down on the little bench to eat, I finally felt it. Independence.

I’d been waiting on the plane to the US, and I’d waited in Germany, and I’d been needling at the edge of myself in Scotland, but it hadn’t snapped into place. Even as I began walking, it still felt like the safety net was there. But here, it finally disappeared. I was alone. I was the only one I could rely on, physically, for thousands of kilometres. If anything went wrong, it was just me. No one could step in, brush over everything, make it better. No one could accidentally stifle, make it claustrophobic. I had all the space in the world. I finally got it, the buzz. Ten year old me would be so happy.

And so I sat, and I ate my weird cheesy tomatoe-y pasta thing and my failed attempt at bruschetta. And it was delicious. And, like every dusky bus station and airport I’ve entered over the past few months, like every quiet night in Washington and walk back to the hostel in Edinburgh, the goddamn fucking Lumineers started to play. I’d been trying to avoid the Northern Rivers coming of age stereotypes so hard, I swear, but they followed me. It was fate, I guess <33

And so we’re here again, back at the end of the night – it’s nice to see you :] I hope you’re well <33 It’s cold, still, even with all my winter gear on and the aircon turned to 30*. I think I’m doomed – cryosleep sounds like the only end to this walk – and I can’t believe I ever complained about the heat. Give me back the 46* days from last week, I’ll take napping in sweat to this!!!

But even so, I’m so tired and swoony and light again, and I think it’s time for bed, and I’ll just leave the cleaning up for tomorrow morning, like a true responsible adult would. I’m really gunning for a good night – but I guess we’ll see in the morning :]

---

Day 9 – August 29th

17.7km

~ 177.8km total

€130.05

~ €331.09 total

 

[sunflowerfunk]

Day 10 : The One With the Blisters and Bad Knees
-Le Grand-Lemps-

It was,,, a start. Mornings were just still not something I enjoyed – if only I could sleep till 2.00pm, then walk,,, but no. I would become a morning person over the next few months, even if it was with brute force. With that in mind, I turned off my alarm and rolled over.

This is why you always have multiple! After thirty minutes of near-constant alarms, I got up. It was 8.00am (crack of dawn basically) and, drumroll please, fucking raining. My clothes will be wet forever I’ve accepted it; never again will I feel warmth. Dramatics behind me, I skipped outside to bring my things indoors, the owner laughing as she did the same.

Having brought the dripping items inside again, I began the chores. Number one, cleaning the kitchen, was over in a flash, a quick montage of scrubbing and drying set to the tune of The Lumineers; I was in a mood, I guess. Or on a roll, depending on how you look at it :] Kitchen suitably clean, I moved on to the second, initially much more appealing chore – repacking my entire bag.

It had occurred to me last night that the beautiful notebook I’d been gifted was at the very bottom, as were the guides for later walks. They were definitely going to be wet. And I’d need to find a better way to store my clothes too, before my bag became too gross and damp for anything else.

After pulling everything out of every pocket and putting it on the table, I clocked that I had a lot of shit. And I was right – my books had started to disintegrate. Damn. I did a bit of amputation, leaving only the pretty paper behind, threw away the damp covers. Left some ingredients too heavy to carry for the owners. Ditched an extra guide, money belt thing, and my shaving things while I was at it. It’d be funny to see how much my facial hair grew by the end anyway.

After that, everything seemed to fit so much easier! I had so much s p a c e. Except, oh yeah, I hadn’t put my clothes in. But now there was still space and – yeah okay the water bladder is also empty sure. But now there was,,,, still no space. I had gotten rid of things that didn’t take up much room at all. Oh well; baby steps!

Cold and wet and shaking already, I made my way out the door. It had stopped raining, luckily, and the owners husband had just stepped out. He shook my hand and wished me luck, then handed me some little sweet muesli snack bar type things, “For ze rod!”. Thankyou, lovely old man, I will miss you <33 He waved me down the entire street, and when I reached the bottom of the hill and turned right with the arrows, I glanced back up to see him still standing on his verandah. One final wave. Onwards :]

Meet Limousine and Louisiana, according to their nametags
It was a dreary start to the morning, one which was starting to grate a little, but within the hour the sun had risen fully, and the clouds parted. I paused, hung some socks and my jumper around the outside of my pack to dry, then moved on. Today the kilometres and towns passed largely in the background – I was capital t Thinking.

Firstly, about the logistics of the Camino. I had missed a fairly important step in my planning: the fucking snow. It was likely I’d have to send some clothes back to Germany, and exchange them for new, warmer ones in Leon or another big city as I drew closer to the Primitivo. If it was bad, I’d need snow-shoes. If it was really bad, I wouldn’t diverge – I’d stick to the Frances. I wasn’t going to let my stubbornness risk my life. I’d just have to see.

Around about here, just a little past La Frette, I had my first break of the day. I aired my feet under a plum tree overlooking the farmland below, revelling in the newfound warmth. It was only 26*, so the wind was still like ice, but it was better. Sun on my neck, what a treat :] As I enjoyed a perfect apple in the shade and prepared to set off, I was mentally meandering through things I was excited about; being over halfway there, arriving in Finisterre, etcetera etcetera.

Then, I drifted on over to Christmas. I spent at least two hours just quietly trying to figure out presents, and time constraints. Anything to take my mind off my knees, which were really being little arseholes today. I was so glad I had stayed the night though, because they were nothing compared to yesterday. Once that was settled, I went to check something online – then realised my data was gone. Shit. That would be a problem; not only could I not check my Very Important Question, but I couldn’t use google translate or get in contact with anyone to let them know I wasn’t dead. I’d have to wait until I next had internet. A bigger town or gîte or hotel or something.

Speaking of: I was nearing my first stop.


-La Côte-St-André-

I arrived in La Côte-St-André looooong before I arrived. I entered the outskirts of one of its various villages, and all shells promptly disappeared. This was the first time it had happened since Geneva, and even that was my fault – I hadn’t experienced this ever. My guidebook definitely would’ve been helpful had I understood it, but alas, today I had no assistance and my conversational German fell through the cracks of Fancy Important German [FIG]. Eventually – grandparents please look away – I got so sick of wandering the same few streets trying to find a glimpse that I gave up, and simply walked on the highway for awhile. Fucking terrifying, and I thought I was going to get hit by every car that passed, but I didn’t!

After ten minutes of slanted side-of-the-road walking, my poor legs were spent, and I was ready to arrive – only to stumble upon,,, the shells again??? The highway was the right way to go??? What the fuck???

The road to nowhere leads to,,,, La Côte-St-André ??
After rejoining with the path, I passed several ‘pilgrims welcome’ signs in front of people’s lovely, warm looking houses, but I pressed on. I wanted to get further than this today; I hadn’t even cracked 15km yet! As it turns out, my chances of getting a bed were probably slim to none anyway, considering it was peak Berlioz Music Festival time, and seemingly every person to ever listen to classical music was here. Just as well, too, because I thoroughly disliked La Côte-St-André so far. It wasn’t its fault, just luck of the draw. It was the first actually big place I’d passed since Geneva – population of around 5,000 – and I just… hated it.

If anything, this walk was making me more and more averse to ever being near a city; I wanted the quiet life the French lived on their tiny hillsides with ten inhabitants. But that could come later – right now I just had to escape. It was beautiful, if overwhelming, and the shells led almost directly out, which I was thankful for. Unfortunately, it seemed La Côte-St-André wasn’t big enough for public wifi – at least, not that I could find with my very rudimentary search. Oh well, I’d stay somewhere in the next few days, and check up on everyone then. I felt bad for going missing, but at the very least it’d be a test of my French skills!

Endless husks,,,
From La Côte-St-André I wandered on, passing a beautiful church and re-entering the drier hillsides of vineyards and little communities. After pausing again, in the shade of a tree beside a sweet little cemetery (where I napped for at least an hour), I watched a woman throw old flowers into the ‘natural’ side of the big concrete basin every cemetery I passed seemed to have, and repot new ones. There was such care in the way the French treated the dead – I hadn’t yet come across an empty graveyard. Someone was always tending, always talking. It was interesting.

Resisting the urge to just stay the night, the cold winds pushed me on. Tonight was going to suck. I had already decided to stay outside – seemingly remembering that at one point, the forecast had said a clear night – but the memory of the sweaty shirt draped over my mouth the night before last gave me one shot to reconsider. I rang a gîte. My French skills did not pass the test. Embarrassed, cold and incredibly cynical, I began walking once more. It was around 4.30pm, so I had four hours left to find somewhere.

I walked, and walked and walked and walked. My feet were burning – I had already counted two new blisters – and I was ready to sleep. It was still a good hour or so till my next stop, Faramans, and I was so tired. I could have slept right there by the side of the road, but no. Flicking through the guidebook trying to find another Thing to push me on, I saw it. Étang. Could it be ???? So far from the Rhône ???? It was. Another isolated swimming spot, right before Faramans. For that, I could carry on.

You have no idea how much self-control it took not to walk down here.,,
The nine kilometres passed relatively quickly after that; small towns blended into one. I was laser-focused, as long as you included absentminded daydreaming. I was everywhere and nowhere, here and there. I found a peacock feather in the dust, and a moment later found myself in the middle of corn fields. My feet had gained new life, ran away from me, my mind trailing behind on a string. And then, as I ducked under thorns and spikes and tacky seed pods and branches, I emerged.


-Étang de Marais-

Walking directly onto a pitch coaching youth soccer at 6.45pm covered in various sticks and leaves and wrapped in a big towel was probably not the best move, but in my defence, who the hell puts a soccer pitch in the middle of a path!

Little ducklings going right past :’]
Either way, I ducked around the corner and found myself at Étang de Marais. Unfortunately, after all that, my plans were foiled: no swimming. Not that I particularly felt like it – it was cold, and brown, and I could see the eels. It even had an ibis island, sans ibis. Who knew you could find Murwillumbah in the middle of France?

Praying that the locals wouldn’t be of quite the same variety as Murbah, I picked a bench and waited till dusk. I ate a butchered attempt at bruschetta, tried to use the last of my pesto, then I wrote, and wrote, and wrote a little more. I’ve been doing a lot of that lately. Turns out, if all I have to distract myself is myself, I just end up scribbling. Tomorrow, it’ll become letter or two, but for now it’s just mishmash.

As the sun sets, I realise, again, how blatantly bad tonight will be. It’s fucking icy. And it’s only 9.00pm. I’m doomed. But I’ve accepted my fate; I’ll stick out the cold nights until I can’t anymore, then I’ll stay in the gîtes. Maybe the tent will be sent back with the cooler clothes – we’ll see. Everything was very unsure, but one thing wasn’t; today I was breaking out the thermals. One of them, at least.

With my torso significantly warmer than usual, I wait for the stragglers to clear. Finally, the last group leaves; I can steal their spot. I don’t trust my recollection of the forecast any more than I trust the actual forecast, so I upgrade. No longer a park bench, but a park tablecomplete with little roof. Ooh la la.

Home sweet home !
It’ll be an early start – morning joggers probably don’t want to see someone passed out on a table. Although, what I’ve learnt from all my recent nights sleeping in public parks; the really early freaks (affectionately) don’t care at all what happens around them, and if you just get up somewhere around 6.30am, put away the sleeping bag and just make it look like you’re napping, even up till 8.30am(!), the suspicion vanishes. That’s the latest I’ve tested anyway. So there, potential new pilgrims. I have officially given a Tip. Pilgrims are already weird enough as it is, and as long as you conform a little, you can get away with a lot :]

As I settle, I’m glad I made the switch. There’s clouds on the horizon. Sad – I’ve missed the stars. I think there’s something about the tent specifically that makes me scared – I never feel anything close to that when I sleep on benches or in meadows. The tent feels too separated; here, when there’s noise, I can check and be okay, in there, my mind goes wild.

Anyway. It’s 10.00pm, and the lights are starting to turn off, so I’ll say goodnight. It’ll probably be a while before you get this, what with the internet and all, but I hope it’s alright. And don’t let my dramatics scare you off: this is already, without a doubt, one of the most incredible things I’ve ever done :] Highly recommend, if you happen to have just a few weeks free,,,,

---

Day 10 – August 30th

Le Grand-Lemps to Étang de Marais

22.8km

~ 200.6km total

€0

~ €331.09 total

 

[sunflowerfunk]

Day 11 : The Pros and Cons of Giving Up
-Étang de Marais-

Waking up to the sound of aeroplane traffic was still new
Not the comfiest park bench I’ve ever slept on, but it did the job. With the bonus of there being absolutely nobodythere – the first person I saw was at 8.45am as I got up to leave, which meant I got a sleep-in :]

After unsuccessfully attempting to rub the cold out of my bones, I got up. I will never understand the people who prefer cold to the heat; more layers never works, the ice just burrows deep inside my marrow and refuses to leave. Warmth is easy, all you need is water and a breeze. Can you tell I’m excited for winter?

Breakfast in the park :]
Another upside to sleeping in public parks; there’s almost always everything you need. A quick 100m from my bench were toilets, bubblers and a water tap. Perfect! There were even barbecues, if you’re so inclined, but I was a little underprepared for that. After filling up my water bladder and bottle, and getting myself cleaned up, I wandered back on over, ready for the worst part of the morning. Taking off the thermals, and putting back on my cold, damp shirt. I had left it out to dry, but it had rained for an hour or two and was subsequently soaking. Eek.

After a little bit of reorganising and some mental fortitude (see: delusion), I had decided I was now Not Cold, and started walking. Not that I knew it yet, but today would be,,,, interesting.

Reflections in the pond <33
The first town I passed was Faramans, just a little over 400m from the park in which I’d slept. It was sweet, and quiet. 9.00am on a Thursday, not exactly bustling. [Authors Note: turns out all the kids are on holidays at the moment – explains a lot.] I passed the white houses quickly, returning to corn. Now, I love corn as much as the next guy, but it had been pretty corn-heavy the last few days. Also, something was Wrong. I wasn’t sure what yet, but I could feel it – something was off.

As I walked, my mind,,, wasn’t racing? Or meandering? Or,,, doing much of anything? I was just blank, and sore. Weird. I was also really goddamn slow – it took me an hour and a half to cross the five kilometres into my first stop. (A pretty five though; long winding roads and trees, once you get past the flat empty fields and horses!)


-Pommier-de-Beaurepaire-

Well, I say first stop – I mean it was the first town I’d walked past. I wasn’t going to stop yet; the church was in service, and there was no shade anywhere else. I began my first game of chicken.

Classic pilgrim shadow; note the eight different things strapped the outside of the pack, the hunched form, the way that lovely Wet jumper flops along behind me,,,
Now, the way I’d been playing chicken was essentially just a way to make a game (competition) out of walking because i am like a toddler and you can make any task fun by winning <33.

So: each stage would be broken up by me saying I wanted a break, and, for once, my cynic is actually helpful.

‘It’s too early, you haven’t done enough.’

‘What if it’s a really nice place in the shade.’

‘No.’

‘With a breeze.’

‘,,,No.’

‘And a good view.’

‘,,,’

‘And there’s no houses.’

‘,,,,’

‘And you’re alone.’

‘Mmmm okay.’



And so it’d continue – once I found a place that matched all my criteria, I’d let Cynic out.

‘Needs a bench’.

And I’d push on till I found a bench.

‘Too high up.’

And I’d push on into the valleys.

On and on and on until I physically couldn’t anymore and just collapsed into the shade.

So that is what I did about two kilometres from Pommier-de-Beaurepaire; dropped like a ton of bricks. I aired my feet, ate an apple in the shade and waited for the wind to dry my back. Curiously, my knees were quite alright. No clicks, no bumps. The soles of my feet were still having a right nightmare, but they were nothing compared to the new contenders : my shoulders.

Having slowly increased in pain since starting, they had finally reached (metaphorical) breaking point. I imagine it’s a mix of all those lovely teenage hormones and also my general not-showering-every-day-because-i’m-sleeping-outside but I had developed a few angry sub-skin shoulder pimples that were really causing me grief [AN : I never said this would be pretty] when constantly rubbing against the straps of my pack.

To add to it, I’d packed my bag even more unevenly than usual this morning, and my left shoulder was very grouchy at having to take the bulk of the load. Sorry! I’d do better in the morning. After polishing off the apple (and a bit of chocolate), I got back up and kept going. Terrible mistake – at least for the first few minutes.

A very inquisitive new friend :]
Without a doubt, the worst part of taking breaks is having to start walking again. Getting your feet used to the pounding all over again, legs groaning as they straighten once more, tugging your pack that feels like dead weight back onto you. Grim. But then, like always, it starts to make sense again.

Until it doesn’t! Another five or so kilometres later, I was once more in a mood. I was so close to Revel-Tourdan, but my shoulders couldn’t take it. It was already 12.15pm, and I’d only made it it nine kilometres. I was feeling dreadful, and so I figured it was time for food. Salted cashews and another apple, yum. Feeling refreshed, I pushed on.

The weird nothing-in-my-head thing had stuck with me, and I couldn’t untangle anything from it. Somehow, it was more exhausting than the constant chatter I had come to expect – without it, I was just plodding on.


-Revel-Tourdan-

By the time I made it into town, I was wiped. I had no idea what was happening; today hadn’t been particularly hot, or particularly cold. It hadn’t been steep in either direction, and I had even seen other pilgrims for the first time since Les Abrets. But I was gone.

More doors for the elves ??
The idea of continuing on with my planned 12.8km to Bellegarde-Poussieu was unthinkable. So, like anyone would, I started a game of chicken with God.

You see, the other day, I had seen a wooden sign for a gîte. Not unusual, by any means; they were everywhere. But I had seen it twice. Now, if you’ve ever been around me when I make a decision, you’ll know the rule of three. Once is funny, twice is a sign and three times is a promise.

Always nice to see the local wildlife
So when I saw a sign for the same gîte as I left Revel-Tourdan, it was game on. I wasn’t going to fork over the €40 without a fight (for money, my cynic was on my side). I was a united front against the (very sweet) propaganda, arguing as the kilometres trickled by. Nice try, God. But you’d have to give me more details first.

‘Here’s a sign with more details.’

‘Sure. But what about a number?’

‘Here’s the number.’

‘I need a name.’

‘He’s called Fred.’

‘Three signs isn’t enough.’

‘Here’s another eight in quick succession.’

‘These ones are all paper – I only trust wood.’

‘Here’s a wood sign reiterating the above.’

‘What about character?’

‘Every 300m is a new one with supportive phrases.’

‘I can’t speak French or understand directions, so I can’t because it isn’t on the way.’

‘Here’s the entrance to it directly on the way, written in English, German and French.’



Jesus fucking christ FINE.

The trees around here were covered in hanging shells :]
Turns out it was only €20, too, if you don’t take the dinner. I was still reeling a little from last-last nights’ decision, so I just went with a bed. It was a lovely little place, La Ferme de la 1000 Couleurs (The Farm of 1000 Colours, in case you missed it). Strange, but lovely. Fred was a sweetheart, and we made do in broken language. He even brought me a slice of chocolate gateau, on the house, to welcome me. Instant bonus points <33

The pilgrim side of the gîte is split in two levels; the breakfast room, toilet and showers are downstairs, as well as a ping-pong table, and the accomodation itself is upstairs. Eight comfortable beds with curtain dividers (thank god), with a second common room. This common room was the star of the show, easily. It was warm and open, full of chairs and lounges and rugs and places to sit, with stacks of board games and books and pens. Heaven. Especially when you were the only one there.

As nice as other people were, I liked people-watching more than actually being a person. Luckily for me, only one other bed would be taken tonight. We swapped no words, but that seemed to work for both of us. He would have dinner later, but fell asleep immediately. I fought the urge. It was still only 5.00pm – I had already showered, packed and repacked, and caught up on blog posts. I could take the opportunity to wash and dry my clothes, but that would cost almost another €20 and I finally had access to the weather forecast again – it’d be a sunny week. I’d take my chances.

I will say one thing about La Ferme – absolutely incredible interior design choices. Above each bed was a poorly printed buddha or ganesh poster that stretched their proportions to something even more uncanny, beside most of the beds were bongo drums, and, in one corner, a didge ?? Which threw me off more than anything – fuck was that doing here ??

Lovely little farm view <33
I later learnt that the owners (who were not Fred), operated a second gîte in the crossover between France and Spain, where I would be in a matter of weeks. It was called ‘India’, and I was promised the trip of a lifetime. Brilliant marketing – I promised to stop over on my way across the Pyrenees. Still didn’t explain the didge.

And so I sat on a little hanging chair, listened to some slow songs and wrote some letters. I was torn; risk terrible sleep by sleeping now or risk terrible sleep by not sleeping now. Considering the risk was there regardless, I decided to wait till sunset. That way, even if it sucked, it was beautiful.

It proved to be a brilliant choice on two counts : not only did I miss the sunset due to the general pouring-my-heart-out writing, but upon seeing me upstairs alone, Fred bought me another dessert on the house. God I love you Fred. This time it was some sort of Indian creme-brûlée adjacent thing, soft and gooey, and it was incredible. Maybe a gîte every once in a while wouldn’t be such a bad thing,,,

As I sat and ate and wrote and people-watched, I (unintentionally) eavesdropped on the conversation my now awake roommate was having below, and discovered he had spent the last two years walking in stages from his house. Take one goddamn guess at his nationality. I couldn’t escape them if I tried.

I could become an Instagram foodie if I really tried
Fully German-ed out, I finished up my letters and rounded off the blog. Today was exciting; I had just about a week left until I finished the Via Gebennensis. If I managed to walk more the next few days, that is. Today was my shortest day since the first few hours in Geneva, and I didn’t feel great about it. But after a while, I realised I still had months to go. I could walk at half my speed for weeks and make it. Most completed the Frances and Via Podiensis in thirty days each. I still had a good hundred or so. I was going to be fine.

And as the solar lamps in the garden started to light, and the colourful fairylights twinkled below me, I tried to internalise it. I was going to be fine. There were crickets, and what sounded like a distant cousin of cicadas, and the local French boys were having a belching competition and one was clearly winning. I was going to be fine. It was a full moon tonight; I had started without one in the sky. I was going to be fine :]

---

Day 11 – August 31st

Étang de Marais to Revel-Tourdan

14.4km

~ 215.0km total

€20

~ €351.09 total

 

[BlackRocker57]

Bonne continuation et bon chemin

 

[makingtrax]

Hello everyone !
I've been posting these to my blog, https://pocket-full-of-sea-glass.blog/, but I also wanted to put them here in case anyone was interested :]
I'm walking from Geneva to Finisterre, and this is my journey! I hope you enjoy - they are rather long <33

Following yr walk and look forward everyday for the next blog. I've walked 14 caminos to date and will consider this route in 2025. Thanku Kathleen

 

[sunflowerfunk]

Day 12 : Spherical Mistakes and the Unrivalled Blister Cure
-Revel-Tourdan-

I had gotten jumpy. Normally, it would require an alarm at full volume to even make a dent in my slumber, but today my eyes snapped open the second my roommates’ feet hit the floor. Which must have been a little creepy for him, I imagine.

I was feeling a little anti-people today, so I dozed and waited for him to leave – nothing against the man, just my tolerance for handling other people first thing in the morning is subzero. Once he’d gone downstairs to eat, I went through the gîte motions; strip the bed, fold the dirty linens, clear your shit, get rid of any rubbish, fix the area up. Hostels had prepared me well. After that, I went through my motions; get back into my gross clothes from yesterday, brush my teeth, generally get as un-grotty as possible, pack my things, fill up my water. Always manage to do those last two in the wrong order. Every day. Genius <33

I soon ate some breakfast, realised you had to pay, had a bit of an oops moment and just left a few euros on the table, hoping they’d understand and off I went.

One last look at stretchy Ganesha,,,
It was a beautiful morning – the sun had been up for a little (it was around 8.30am by now), so it was warm, and there was a sweet supportive breeze that pushed me along the way. It was gradual, too, no steep ups or downs, just a meander beneath a trainline in the morning sun. I had two pilgrims behind me, and somewhere in the distance was my roomie. For the first thirty minutes, I was making great time!

But then the pain started anew. The entire time, the inside of my general feet/ankle area had been killing me. It was stabbing pain, and massaging them at night and in breaks hadn’t been helping – the second I kept walking, they’d start screaming. I was also still getting blisters every few days, and was in a bit of a pinch: my socks weren’t drying fast enough, and I was down to my last two pairs. Uh oh!

As I became aware of the latest growing blister, I snapped. I was so sick of them! And then I remembered the age old cure, the stop-all-blisters-forever remedy, the family secret, if you will. Take the fucking things causing them off.

And so I stopped, in the middle of the latest town I was wandering through, steadied myself with a hand on a truck, and tugged my shoes off. Fuck them and fuck these blisters! My feet had been babied enough the past few months – aside from a few hikes around Edinburgh, they’d been in shoes since July. Vile. I put a quick bandaid over both of my pinkies, to stop dirt from getting in, and started to walk.

Instantly, the pain on the inside of my ankles vanished. My toes could crack (finally), and I stopped slipping so much. My shoes spent the majority of the day tied tightly to the back of my pack, doing absolutely fuck all. And it was wonderful. I would have to break my feet back in again – my old callouses were long gone – but they knew the routine.

Small stones and gravel were the enemy, and luckily for me, constituted probably 80% of the paths I’d walk today. But who cares – my blisters definitely didn’t! The two pilgrims had long since passed me as I tied my shoes to my pack, but I caught up with them somewhere around Pinet, as they drank in the shade. I attemped a ‘bonjour’, said it too far away, got embarrassed, steeled myself, went in for a second and realised I was still too far away and then just gave up on the concept entirely. Still too early.

Yellow fields :]
As it turns out, they would be the last pilgrims I would see for my entire day. As I wound into the forest, dappled sunlight covered everything and the birds sung so brightly it felt unreal; monarch butterflies catching the light, lovely little blue beetles scurried through the – POP!

I have officially committed accidental slug-slaughter. Barefoot. Would not recommend on both counts.


-Le Bornet-

As I reached the small summit of Le Bornet, desperately attempting to clear my feet (and mind) of the remnants of my atrocities, I missed something. Somewhere, somehow, a turn had escaped me, a scallop shell hiding behind leaves. My shells now had a yellow dot on the bottom left – I was on a variant route.

What the fuck? I pulled out the book, flicked through. ‘Blah blah blah, the northern variant is much less beautiful, something something, would not recommend unless attempting to stay the night, etc etc.‘ Shit. Maybe I could excuse backtracking, just the once – two kilometres ????

I was walking the variant. I’d miss all the towns for most of today, but I’d reconnect before Assieu, which was the first one with a market and therefore first priority, and my end destination. It’d work. Taking that variant turned out to be a brilliant choice – it gave me some greatbackdrops for my little observations <33 Because more than anything? That variant reminded me of Australia.

Portal <33
The thick mud and tire tracks that clearly showed someone had gotten stuck and tugged out, the sandy clay ground. It felt like K’Gari, like November, breezy and hot. And there were bushes with the little thatched leaves too, like the ones up towards Munyumi Ipa. Crunchy grass, hard, the kind that almost hurt to walk through. Outskirts of cane fields. The endless blue sky. It was bizarre. For an hour, it almost felt like I was back.

Almost, almost, almost. There were, of course, differences. Tall thistles, weeds so different to the ones I was used too. And it was corn, not cane. The tall, rusted fences were different too, and so were the perfectly manicured green fields I’d occasionally get a glimpse of. Just close enough to slip between, fall through the geographical cracks.

When I first left Australia, I was anticipating homesickness. I was anticipating the tug in my stomach pulling me back, tying me to something. Yet it wasn’t surprising when it didn’t arrive. Given the chance, I wouldn’t even really know how to describe home – it would be some sort of garbled gay nonsense with the ocean tossed in. I had no childhood house, no room I grew up in. I didn’t have incredibly close friends, or a sense of community. I had family, sure, but my family was spread across continents regardless of my positioning. Until now, I had merely been shifting between houses, never really feeling secure. As long as I stuck to the coastline, I would be fine.

That was something I did miss, though. The saltwater. I couldn’t remember a time in living memory where I’d gone longer than a few weeks without the touch of the ocean. I hadn’t entered it in just over two months now and my skin was itching to be roughened and pruned by the waves. Finisterre couldn’t come fast enough, regardless of how frigid it would be by the time I arrived.

As I wandered and thought about home – whatever that meant – the kilometres trickled past. My feet were still learning, and I knew today would be slow going. It would be another relatively short day, like yesterday, but I didn’t mind so much this time. I would be okay :]

Soon, I left my little slice of the southern hemisphere behind, and began the climb. This, I considered ‘part two’. The climate switched again, back to arid corn fields and grasshoppers who always seemed to jump right as I stepped – I must have kicked ten already today. I wandered through small town after small town, passing abandoned houses decaying in dead sunflowers. It all felt rather poetic – but let’s not get too ahead of ourselves.

Part two begins !
It was warm, but again, manageable. I was barefoot on asphalt for hours at midday – it wasn’t even noticeably hot. My feet breathed a sigh of relief; Australian sun would not be so kind. After a few hours, I ate my second-to-last Brötchen in the shade, finishing up my pesto and tomatoes while I was at it too. I hadn’t paid attention to the town names – I’d been a little distracted – but I assumed I was nearing Le Grand Chêne. I would save my cashews and my final orange, then. If I got hungry later, I didn’t want to risk having nothing.

After a few hundred metres of more gravel, I entered one of the ‘villages’ of Assieu – definitely getting close. I passed through field after field, with not another soul to see. For most of today, I’d been listening to music – The Lumineers, mostly. They’d gotten into my head and I could not for the life of me get them out so I figured, considering I was dead alone, I may as well get some tunes out of it. As they echoed softly from my pocket, I passed the 2km-to-Assieu sign, and turned left. Back to the forest we go.


-Le Grand Chêne-

Eventually, I entered the little wooded glade of Le Grand Chêne, where my variant would merge with the traditional route from the,,, opposite direction? Completely confused on the logistics, I passed a man living the dream (dozing in the shade) and made my way downhill. Here it was rocky too, unsteady and steep, but slow and steady,, gets you almost skidding down in a tidal wave of gravel. After a little scrabbling, I steadied myself at the bottom, and continued. Cool as a cucumber. Or a duck, if you had James Acaster on the mind.

This is me telling you I have James Acaster on the mind.

One of the fun parts about liking a comedian is, for me. memorising parts of their routines and still finding it hilarious. The only time I’ve praised my weird minor obsessions is now and it is purely because at a time where I was exhausted and sore and hangry, I simply started recounting Cold Lasagne […] and let me tell you, makes it real goddamn easy to feel better.


-Assieu-

Arriving in Assieu was a little underwhelming; the shells brush you past the main road then send you straight out. I diverged from the route, intentionally this time, figuring the church would probably be in the centre of town. I was right, and thank god too because I really needed groceries. I was hungry and running out and planning to sleep outside tonight; I’d need at least two meals.

I sat on the church steps to put my shoes back on; most shops weren’t quite as Byron as Byron was, and they usually preferred the horrible blister-causing bastards. But that was okay because : I couldn’t find it. Reading actual maps was not my strong suit, and I still couldn’t use my phone. Fuuck. After wandering the main street with no luck, I realised it was probably being renovated (or I was blind, or stupid, or both).

That wasn’t great – I couldn’t stay here without food. I hadn’t wanted to walk too much today, considering I was still getting used to being barefoot again. Returning to the church, I had my final Brötchen with the last scrapes of my fake nutella, and said goodbye to my feet. What I needed now was speed – the shoes would have to stay. I was going to be blister-central later. Fuck me. Onwards!

Aaah, nature <33
At least the next shop was only a town away, somewhere around five kilometres down the road. I could do that, easy peasy. My feet strongly disagreed. Immediately unhappy with my decision to keep going, they began their angry clamouring. I fought with them through corn fields and sideroads, under the treeline and under the sky.

They quieted only when I found something new to long for; fruit. I passed by orchard after orchard, trees bending with the weight of their ripeness. Apples, bright and dark and red, caught in nets that tangled around them like spiderwebs. Various wild berries covered the fences, and, recognising a few I’d seen locals picking over the last few days, I popped some off and tried them. Small, sweet blackberries, tangy blueberries. A strange red berry that smelt like mint. A few I didn’t try; long yellow pods, more tiny red berries with red stems, some purple ones growing from a nearby tree.

Mmmmmm

-Auberives-sur-Varèze-

These orchards continued until I entered the outskirts of Auberives-sur-Varèze, and diverged once again. This time, I had a few goals; I needed toilets, water, food and a place to sit. In that order. Not that they’d ever be in that order, but a man can dream.

The first thing I found was a market, and therefore food. Now, as some who know me can attest, I have been known to fly into fits of momentary mundane panic, mostly taking place in shopping centres or other places where I need to make decisions quickly, and making choices that make no sense. No spoilers, but I’m definitely about to do that now.

When I enter this strange little carwash slash shop, I am so overwhelmed and tired that I effectively blackout, just chucking anything I’ve ever slightly liked into a basket and paying. I come to outside, walking towards the cemetery with a now full green bag in my arms. What the hell was that all about?

The church comes into view first, so I beeline. They usually have toilets and water, but not today. But, at the very least, I was halfway through my list of goals – I had a place to sit. Successfully rested, I examine my haul. Bread, of course. An avocado I’m afraid of, some tomatoes and a cucumber. Nice work, delirious panic me, you’re doing great. Fruit; apples, peaches and oranges. Solid. Quite a bit of Orangina, I’ll let it slide. A small, cold Fanta. Feeling very orangey, but it’s cold. Nice choice. Some chocolate – weird choice now that it’s warm again, but sure. Hey – what the fuck is that?

That.
That is a watermelon. Yeah. On the walk where I threw away shaving cream because 110g was just a bit too much unnecessary weight, I bought a fucking watermelon. Now, in my defence, it is a small watermelon – I can hold it in one hand. In not my defence: I fucking hate watermelon! Why did I buy that! Why, panic me, why!

‘Well,’ panic me says, ‘The cashier guy smiled at you and pointed at it like he was going ‘hey! buy one please!’ so I did.’

Brilliant.

I still needed a bathroom, and I was putting my faith in the way to give me one soon so I didn’t have to shit in a field. After repacking everything except the watermelon, I was ready to set off again. Now I only had one problem : where could I put it? It was small, sure, but it was still spherical – the absolute worst shape to ever try and pack ever. There was no space anywhere – I’d have to carry it. Goddamn.

As I backtracked, carrying my watermelon, it became somewhat of a blessing in disguise. Every single time I looked at it, it became funnier. I already got enough odd looks for the amount of things strapped to my pack – to be carrying around a w a t e rm e l o n on top of that was more than exhausted me could bear. I laughed all the way to La Pêche.

Aptly named, La Pêche was yet another massive instalment of orchards, this time full of delicious looking juicy peaches. I couldn’t wait to eat the ones in my pack – they had come from here. Yum.

As I found even more fruits to yearn for, apricots and nectarines and sour tangy grapes (according to the signs, no mouth theft today), I slowly saw the welcome sign come into view over the curve of the hill.

From far away it looks like the surface of a lake

 

[sunflowerfunk]

Spherical Mistakes and the Unrivalled Blister Cure (Part Two)
-Clonas-sur-Varèze-

An extra 3km from Auberives-sur-Varèze was the somewhat bigger town of Clonas-sur-Varèze. This time I was sure I’d complete my four goals. But my hopes dwindled the further into the centre of town I got – where was everything?

Mentally preparing myself to shit in a bush somewhere, I carried on. I’d just have to speed through the rest of this town quickly and find somewhere to set up camp. But then, in the distance – a church spire. Let’s fucking g o! This time, please Clonas-sur-Varèze, please have a bathroom.

They didn’t. But the Marie, the town hall, did, and that was directly across the street in the shade so that was basically the same thing <33 Thoroughly relieved at not having to realise my precious bush-shitting plans into reality, I dumped my pack (and my watermelon) and went inside.

Teenagers were the same everywhere, at least
There was more good news; the church was also in the shade, and graciously afforded me a lay down on the still-warm concrete. This time, when I aired my feet, they were furious – all red and bubbly. No more! No more! They were unionising against me. Socialist dickheads.

As I lay in the shade, I palmed through the book. What were my options, really? I could sleep here, but I’d rather not. There was quite a gap between Clonas-sur-Varèze and Saint-Pierre, the next town on the trail, and it seemed to be green. Usually that meant fields.

‘First good meadow?’ Joked the optimist.

As it turns out, there were no meadows – not one. I realised too late that the green wasn’t forest, it was farmland. As I walked further and further along the shells, my plans began to skew. Where could I sleep? It was all industrial here – there were no green spots. It was an odd, dead, gray bubble. The kilometres refused to trickle, my legs and feet wrecked.

And so I decided, as the shells led me to the side of a highway and instructed me to walk along the precipice as it bridged over railroad, it was Thing Time. I jumped the shoulder onto the highway, again as the shells instructed (this part of the walk feels a little ill-thought-out but who am I to judge), and as soon as I could split off again, I did. I was now in Saint-Pierre, another 3km from my last stop, and I was ready to pass out forever.

But again, there was nothing – it was now suburbia and the sides of roads. I was not quite at the sleeping-in-an-urban-ditch headspace, but we’d see. I need a Thing. As I wandered, I perched the guidebook gently atop my watermelon and scanned. I could press on to Chavanay, but that was almost another 4km away. No thank you. I did still need water, but I needed rest more. Worst comes to worst, I’d survive off Orangina till the morning. But where to go?

Then, there! My favourite word in the entire world ; Rhône. I was b a c k babey, ready and roaring to go! If you qualify meagrely limping roaring, at least. It was right before Chavanay, but I could make it. A bridge meant riverside, which meant benches. And so I moved on, the watermelon like a rock, dragging my arms down.

I wound down street after street, feet agonising over each step. My knees had decided to chime in, as had my calves. Then my shoulders felt left out, so they started up a chorus too. I was totalled. Wrecked. Kaput. But each step was a step closer to the water, to sleep. And then, finally, I could see it. I was on the final stretch, just a few more fields. The aeroplanes were sending streaks across the sky, and the sun was setting, and everything looked so beautiful.

Aeroplane scribbles :]
It was the perfect setting to fall asleep to :] If I had managed to find a bench, that is, which I had not. Into Chavanay it was. I would cross the (very long) bridge, and there, on the other side, would be a bench. There’d have to be. Because if there wasn’t, I didn’t know what I was going to do. Probably sleep in an urban ditch actually, but fingers crossed I could save that for another night.


-Chavanay-

I dramatically staggered across the bridge, legs on fire, holding onto the railing (and watermelon) with white knuckles because I so genuinely thought I’d pitch into traffic. Knees buckling, I stepped off and saw it. There, right in front of me. A bench. Fuck the water, that was a morning me problem – I was not walking another step tonight.

Oh Rhône, how I’ve missed you <33
And then I dropped the watermelon.

It split, because of course it did, directly onto some cigarette butts, and I picked up the shell of its body, fished out some innards to try – and it was fucking foul. I hate watermelon.

And so I laid for awhile, then devoured some of my bread and cashews. There were cars everywhere – it felt like the very first afternoon of walking again, except this time instead of a church it was a late-night-sport-centre. I was right, by the way. Blister central. I am in agony. Jesus fucking christ shoes are the worst. I think in the morning I’ll continue the whole not-wearing-them-till-they’re-definitely-needed-thing because this sucks !!

And tomorrow, I’ll need to find a gîte, or somewhere to (re)wash my clothes. It’s a sunny week everywhere it seems, so maybe,,, m a y b e,, this time it’ll work. Tenth times’ the charm, right? Anyway, even the sports centre is starting to close, so I think I’ll leave you here. But I’ll see you in the morning for breakfast, if you’d like! We can talk about the logistics later, but for now, I need to sleep. I guess sometimes home is just a bench sandwiched between train-tracks, a sports centre and a highway <33

---

Day 12 – September 1st

Revel-Tourdan to Chavanay

30.7km

~ 245.7km total

€18.88

~ €369.97 total

 

[sunflowerfunk]

Following yr walk and look forward everyday for the next blog. I've walked 14 caminos to date and will consider this route in 2025. Thanku Kathleen

Thankyou!
That's amazing - fourteen?! Sounds like I could learn a thing or two from you :]
And I'd definitely recommend this route so far, it's absolutely gorgeous <33

 

[jo_nz]

Hello everyone !
I've been posting these to my blog, https://pocket-full-of-sea-glass.blog/, but I also wanted to put them here in case anyone was interested :]
I'm walking from Geneva to Finisterre, and this is my journey! I hope you enjoy - they are rather long <33

This is a fabulous read - thank you!
We walked le puy to Santiago last year so am along for the ride - amazing!!

 

[Rita Flower]

Hello everyone !
I've been posting these to my blog, https://pocket-full-of-sea-glass.blog/, but I also wanted to put them here in case anyone was interested :]
I'm walking from Geneva to Finisterre, and this is my journey! I hope you enjoy - they are rather long <33

Oh thank you thank you thank you.
I am so enjoying reading your journey. Your writing is immediate, humorous, personal, intimate; an absolute delight.
On my first Camino Francés (799!km) I met two robust young women who had walked from Switzerland. I was truly humbled. Last Camino (Via de la Plata - 1007 Km) I met a young person who walked from Greece - because he wanted to do a long walk. Awesome.
I have been dithering about another Camino. As a fellow Aussie it’s a long way to go. Your Camino is inspirational.
Currently I’m with you swimming in the Rhöne and looking forward to what comes next.
Many blessings and Buen Camino.

 

[sunflowerfunk]

Oh thank you thank you thank you.
I am so enjoying reading your journey. Your writing is immediate, humorous, personal, intimate; an absolute delight.
On my first Camino Francés (799!km) I met two robust young women who had walked from Switzerland. I was truly humbled. Last Camino (Via de la Plata - 1007 Km) I met a young person who walked from Greece - because he wanted to do a long walk. Awesome.
I have been dithering about another Camino. As a fellow Aussie it’s a long way to go. Your Camino is inspirational.
Currently I’m with you swimming in the Rhöne and looking forward to what comes next.
Many blessings and Buen Camino.

Thankyou so much, that's so kind :]
The cost to get to any of the camino routes from Australia is definitely rough, so I can completely understand the hesitation - I've been trying to find some long distance hikes around home too (Heysen, etcetera). Bicentennial National Trail looks great but just a tad more isolated than the camino hahah

 

[sunflowerfunk]

Day 13 : Biblically Accurate Angels Wear Gumboots and Camo Shorts
-Chavanay-

I woke up feeling,., awake? Which was not only a first in probably a few months, but also made no sense – I had been up till just past four last night, unable to sleep. I never could, when the moon was full. Refreshed, and full of energy at 7.30am; was this what being a morning person was like ??

The cars and trains were still roaring past, shaking the leaves from the trees, and the sun was creeping up my bench. Lovely start. I pulled on my shirt, which had solidly turned to cardboard with sweat, in case you needed a visual, and got as ready and clean as possible. Pros and cons to sleeping on a bench by the side of the road, I guess.

After immediately missing some pretty obvious shells, I found myself winding through some very cool streets – complete with bunting, of course. The shells reappeared at a crossroads and I had a decision to make; turn away and go withdraw cash, or wait until tomorrow. Choosing the easiest option, I followed the shells. I’m sure that won’t become a problem later.

Obligatory bunting picture :]
Anyway, today the shells are not on my side, because they do not pass by a single water source. At all. Now, I haven’t drunk water since about ten minutes out of Assieu, and I’m absolutely fucking fiending. Orangina is great, but sparkling anything does Not cure thirst, and even if it did, I have none left. So I begin the age-old mantra, ‘the next town will have water. Just make it to the next town. The next town will have water.’, and so on and so forth.

The first stop takes place a few kilometres in. at the Chapel du Calvaire, where I cut an orange into slices and enjoy the view and pretend this is like drinking something. Hate to say it, but if you get tired of repetition, you’re not going to like this instalment.

And I have to admit, after polishing off the orange, I didfeel a little better. There’s something about them that just feels so specific – they’re only ever good on holidays. At home, oranges taste gross, soured by years of six-a-side soccer and sweaty sticky fists. But here, they were sweet, ripe. I was starting to understand orange juice people (almost).

Chavanay from above!
And so I continue, being passed by two cyclists who are so much older than me it’s almost embarrassing. Until I remember old people strength is crazy. And also that I’m meant to not be comparing myself to other people so much anymore. Oops! And then, on the horizon : my first town.

There’s no water there either. Damn! I weave my way through the tiny smattering of houses once more just to check, but come up empty-bottled. It’s not the end of the world though – there’s still two towns between me and Bessey, the first actual stop. I’ll find something :]

Between this village and the next, there’s nothing. It’s around 27* and counting, and it’s muggy as all hell. I find a tiny stream that looks relatively clear, and follow it upstream a little to check. Seems okay. I fill up my bottle about 1/4 of the way – I didn’t want to risk getting sick, just needed enough to get me to Bessey.

It’s gorgeous today, muggy heat and all. The fields of corn have officially given way to endless apple orchards, and it rules. I have to confess to an act of mouth theft here, as I pick one of the little ones off a tree that looks a little out of place – it’s delicious, crisp and fresh and crunchy. And more importantly; it has juice. Anything to trick myself into thinking I’m hydrated.

Who knew saints could look so goofy?
And then, before I know it, the path splits off, and I veer left to find the Bessey welcome sign. Finally.


-Bessey-

Bessey is a small town, with a few central streets that rally around the church. It’s pretty, especially surrounded by the orchards and dry grass – it feels like an oasis. Or, more accurately for my situation, a mirage.

What the fuck does France have against taps today? I’m desperate, so I fill it up halfway with (proverbial) shitty public bathroom sink water. Tastes foul, but it’s liquid. Then I sit in the shade of the Marie, eat a peach and the rest of my bread and try to think.

I’m not ashamed to admit my pace today could best be described as snail-like; I was essentially hobbling. 30km yesterday had done quite the goddamn number on my legs, it would seem, and I was already aching. I had a feeling this would be another La Ferme de 1000 Couleurs type of day. So I began scanning for places to sleep, trying to distract myself from the thirst. I landed on a camping spot in St-Julien-Molin-Molette. It seemed reasonably priced, and wasn’t too far away. Plus, I could finally wash my clothes and relax a little. Set on my plan, I backtracked to the welcome sign and followed the GR65 markings.

French hobbits would have it MADE
Turns out, no I didn’t. There’s another path, with the same white line, just with black instead of red. For most of the day, they’ve been going in the same direction, but it had been a little too long without seeing the red one so I paused, reconsidered. The guidebook told me I did need to go back – the correct way out was to turn right before the church, then immediately left again.

Except, when I got back to the church, there,,, was no right turn ? It was solid brick houses all the way down. Probably a translation thing. I wandered about a bit until I found a right, and there was that red and white! Perfect. I began to walk down the path, seeing what looked like a large group of pilgrims in the distance. Even better. But,, there was one pilgrim,,, coming towards me? A returnee, I assumed, or maybe just someone who also needed to refill water. As he neared, we made eye contact and nodded, smiled. Then, as the realisation dawned, I turned, pointed questioningly, to find him doing the same.

My roomie!

We laughed, swapped names. I feel terrible, but I’ve forgotten his – it was something intensely German, maybe Klaus? Regardless, he was lovely, and teased me for taking (multiple) wrong turns. I was, as he explained, headed straight back to Chavanay. As we rounded the corner back into Bessey (for the third time), I realised my mistake.

There was a right turn before the church – if you came from the right direction. I had somehow diverged from the actual path w e l l before I had arrived. Thank God for maybe-Klaus. We split again, him to rest and me to continue, as I made my way (in the correct direction this time) to Le Viallon.

More mystery fruits!
Or at least trying to. Today was Not my day – 1.4km seemed to stretch into the distance, endlessly. I was sofucking thirsty. I felt delirious, and it struck me how this was actually dangerous. What the fuck was I doing, continuing to walk? Had I not learnt anything from Australian summers? Dehydration does not fuck about. Alas, that genius eluded me, and I carried on, sans shoes this time.

After an hour, I had to stop. I was on the top of a hill, right by some stables – the horses here were insane, and everywhere – and there was a breeze. I was really worried now, and sat in the shade, ate my apple, trying to savour the juice.

The lack of water was really starting to get to me, and I was thoroughly ready to curl up and sleep, but the thought of being stuck somewhere actually really dehydrated put me back on my feet. Worst comes to worst I still had one final orange – after that we’d just have to see.

As I passed by village after village with nothing – no taps, no living people, no nothing – my hope was beginning to dwindle. Back on went the shoes, in the name of speed. Nothing. Not even Le Viallon. I’d been walking for waylonger than a kilometre and a half, surely.

This is getting out of hand. Who is this for?!?
I climbed a mountain, for funsies it would seem. At almost-the-top, I passed the first house for what felt like hours and practiced my fire drills; stop, drop and .. eat an orange. I opened the guidebook, tried to find signs I was past where I needed to be. I was, by almost seven kilometres. Exhausted, sweaty, sticky I continued up, fuelled by new hope. I was close.

There was one final climb, one final push, to the top of the mountain, to Croix de St-Blandine. There was a gîte there, but I wouldn’t stay. I’d go a little past, entirely downhill, to that campground I mentioned earlier. I can’t have been more than 4km away – an hours walk.

And there, right before the vertical turn uphill, was a house. With a person. My god. Shitty French and bad miming saved me, as I begged her for water. Oui, oui. Out came the hose. I felt like I was floating. All my camino angels seemed to be because of water – maybe probably something I should plan better for. I filled up my bottle, thanked her profusely, and started the climb.

I made a mistake just about the second I crossed from her driveway back to the path though; I drank. Like a child running blue-lipped from the surf, or after soccer practice; I guzzled, huge gulps in quick succession, gorging myself on that sweet, sweet, tinny hose water.

Then, promptly, I became quite sick. So much water, so fast, after nothing for awhile will swell your stomach, fill you up. I felt horrific, just sloshing about, but I had to keep going. Camping places also closed, and I couldn’t check when – they didn’t answer the phone. It was 6.00pm.


-Croix de St-Blandine-

Croix de St-Blandine is marked with a small stone that tells you there are now only 1600km to go until Santiago, and a lovely looking gîte, where pilgrims were dozing on small beds placed directly in the afternoon sun. It looked like heaven, but it was reservation-only and I was still set on a camp.

The path splits into three at the pinnacle, and after a minor debacle in taking the wrong path,, three times,, I finally found the shells and carried on (directly down the middle, then turn to the right, if you happen to also be lost at Croix de St-Blandine). I skirted around a few fields, passed some sheep, then started off townhill. It was another La Motte; at each little settlement my feet sighed with relief, then died all over again when I had to keep going.

Alex.
Finally though, I climbed my last hill and saw it. St-Julien-Molin-Molette. Split directly in two. My half was down a stupidly steep road. Go figure. By the time I shuffled into town, my limbs were dead. I couldn’t feel my feet, which at this point in time is concerning, but brilliant. After staggering around a little but finding zero indication of the campsite, I gave up. Park bench it was.


-St-Julien-Molin-Molette-

These ones were thick and cold, solid concrete. Initially, I really thought they’d be comfortable. But that didn’t matter so much, I just needed to rest. It was just past 7.15pm though, so I couldn’t yet. That is the downside to public sleeping; your schedule is not entirely your own. At least, not if you get stupidly cold like me and need a sleeping bag. If you can doze and not freeze, go for it :]

On my way to sit down, I had passed a few seedy looking people, a bunch of teenage boys getting drunk by the merry-go-round, and far more children chain smoking with adults than I ever thought could congregate in one place. All to say, I didn’t quite fit in. Then again, evening in a kids playground alone,,, maybe not quite the place you want to fit in.

Some locals made up for others though <33
I also passed what seemed to be the remnants of a food stall, probably twenty metres from where I now lay. I people watched for awhile, as minivans came and went, as large rugs and pillows were shunted around, while the teenagers very loudly made fun of me. Brilliant. It was nice, though, as the sun started to dim. It was the first church I’d seen a community around; kids played in the courtyard, adults drinking tea on the benches. It was cool :]

But then I realised the market stall wasn’t packing up, it was just getting started. More and more people started to arrive, hauling urns for coffee and endless boxes. More minivans, more short French women wildly gesticulating as small children weaved between the legs of old men carrying wooden crates. It was very exciting, with the small downside of a little longer till I could sleep.

So I passed the time with refilling my water, listening to music. The luxuries. I read the book a little more, the translations becoming clearer every time I did. I neededto find a place tomorrow. My clothes smelt terrible, and were making everything else smell too. Plus, I had no more dry socks, and I really did not want more blisters.

I had three choices;

1. A camping place a little before Bourg-Argental, around 6km away,

2. A gîte in Mounes, around 8km away, or,

3. A different campsite near St-Saveur-en-Rue, 14km away.

Tomorrow would be two weeks of walking, and the 30km was still kicking my arse into next week, so I was okay with a rest day. I just didn’t know where.

Pink :]
That was a problem for morning me, however, because the loud teenage drunks had just left. And the stars were out. So it was time for me to sleep, on this cold, hard, bench, before the midnight festivities began. It was due to be frigid again tonight, with lows of 10*. I was not entirely looking forward to it, but I had tugged on all my layers and all that was left now was to pray.

So goodnight! Thanks for reading (again), I know this one was a little on the boring side. Might want to get a little used to it – tomorrow I doubt much will happen at all, rest day and all. But I’m sure you’ll manage. Maybe you’ll even get to hear some more about my laundry, if you’re really lucky <33

---

Day 13 – September 2nd

Chavanay to St-Julien-Molin-Molette

21.1km

~ 266.8km total

€0

~ €369.97 total

 

[sunflowerfunk]

Day 14 : Laundromats and Other Things That Make Life Worth Living
-St-Julien-Molin-Molette-

Bit of a bumpy start this morning – it was icy. I’d definitely need a refresh of gear in Le Puy, as this shitty sleeping bag was n o t cutting it. Nor were my (numerous) thermals and fleece and layers. At least the days were warm!

It was somewhere around 8.30am, and the sun was high enough that I could force myself from the sleeping bag, begin to repack. As I did, I got a few odd looks, all from the same guy. Although he seemed to just be sweeping a bunch of sand back and forth repeatedly behind a fence so I figured I could let him be.

As I got myself a little cleaner, I watched the market really kick off. Stalls and stalls and stalls, reggae-punk echoing through the town, cigarette smoke wafting. The wooden crates turned out to be filled with records, with every genre and decade, and most tables were covered in weird vases and interesting glasses. Plants covered the carpark, homely baked goods drifted around. It looked like it ruled.

But I was still almost entirely out of cash. I had about €10 to my name, and markets were not the kind of places were cards ruled. Broadly, nowhere was; I was kicking myself for not getting more out yesterday morning. Damn! Momentary warmth off and damp shirt on once more, I pulled myself to my feet and began my search for the épicerie. Walking up from the path, I realised I was already on the main street, so simply walked down. Except,, everything seemed to be closed? It was early on a Saturday, so everything should be open.

Book nooks were everywhere <33
It was round about here that I clocked it wasn’t a market – it was a festival. It stretched down the side-streets, drawing in every inhabitant of the local area. Just as well too, I found out that the centre of it all was a small undercover area I was going to sleep in if I didn’t find a bench when I did. Thank god.

Luckily, the shop I needed was open, and it promised bread. Good thing too; I was officially out of everything but some cashews, and I was starving. I had been too tired to eat last night, and fresh bread for breakfast sounded like heaven. As it turns out, the épicerie was,, rustic. It was a small room with a few sad, dusty shelves with what packets and boxes of what seemed like a strange assortment of basics; packet soup, a few potatoes, some tea, nutella, a fridge of meat and some chocolate. A few fruits too, but a little too expensive for my tastes.

I settled for a cold orangina (of course). Turns out bread is only on reservation, so that was the end of that masterplan. My next shop was Bourg-Argental, so on I’d wander.

It turned out to be quite an alright morning. There was a short, evil climb up the hill leaving St-Julien-Molin-Molette which burned in the heat, but after that it got easier. A slow meander down a few hills, back up again. The path sloped, rather than straight-up, so I could almost forget I was gaining elevation.

After helping a man lift some wooden doors up some stairs, I returned to the path – in the shade. What a treat :] It felt very slow, not that I minded. Peaceful, and all that. The birds were louder, and I walked without music past cows and squirrels, past hay-bales in empty fields and creeks rolling downhill.

At some point, I came to the point overlooking Bourg-Argental, and just stopped and stared for a moment. It was quite something; nestled in the arms of the surrounding mountains, bright and vibrant. I followed the asphalt into the pine trees, listened to the needles shift in the wind.

Overlooking Bourg-Argental :]

-Bourg-Argental-

The road into Bourg-Argental sort of comes out of nowhere – you’re in a forest and then you round a bend and there’s a servo and the houses start. Boom. Back in the hubbub.

Bourg-Argental is another of the bigger towns, and my first stop. The way leads you directly past the camping place, a lovely looking place on the banks of a little river. I pause by the welcome sign, linger. It’s around 11am, and I’ve only walked a few kilometres yet. I cross the small footbridge over the river, sit on a bench. Debate.

After a little back and forth, I decide to carry on. There was still the gîte, after all, and the next camping place. And I still needed food – I was really growling now. So I would continue, until I couldn’t anymore. And on I walked, following the river for a few hundred metres before coming to a second bridge and a steep uphill. Take a guess which way the shells pointed.

The uphill would be a problem for later me – current me needed food. And just across the bridge was a tiny Carrefour. Yes. Groceries sorted, back significantly sweatier with the stress of human interaction and overwhelming hunger, I followed the opposite end of the river until I found a small spot in the grass to sit.

Here, I had a breakfast for royalty. A fresh baguette (delicious), with cucumber (incredible), tomato (final one from Auberives-sur-Varèze, decidedly mushy, not ideal), more comté and salt and pepper. And Orangina. More of it. I was developing a serious problem, it was impossible not to buy it whenever I saw it. I had long since decided euros didn’t count when they were for cold citrus drinks. And so I sat and feasted and listened to the water, talked briefly with my family. It was nice. It was slow, and calm. I felt peaceful. I had a pocket of internet, so I looked up the next campsite.

Ooooh. Okay. Didn’t look like much (sorry St-Saveur-en-Rue), and had no real way to contact them to find out opening or reserving options or rates. Eep. That left the gîte and here. To be honest, I think I’d decided the moment I saw the welcome sign. Back it was. Wandering along the roadside this time, I noticed it even had a pool. Mmm. I needed a swim.

But alas, no one was there. Reception was 9.00am-11.00am, or 5.30pm-7.00pm. France <33 I tried the number, but butchered the fuck out of my French. Not every day you ask ‘y a-t-il de la place pour une tente ce soir ?’ and get the response ‘I don’t speak English, sorry’. Ouch. My confidence smarting, I returned to the meadow. I only had five hours until reception opened, so I got comfortable.

Huge fan of gruesome angel statues, as it turns out
The meadow was gorgeous. Red squirrels darted from tree to tree, quirked curious heads. If you stayed still long enough, they’d come closer. Not close, but closer. Little red robins bipped about, pecking at nothing. I watched one try to hop from one branch to the next and fall which was a first for me. There were these plants waving everywhere, covered in bees, that left swatches of yellow pollen on my pants. And behind it all was the river, bubbling along over the rocks. Not a bad spot for a kip :]

I rolled out the mat, tugged on a jumper. It was only 24*, and the shade still bit. I even had to pull out the sleeping bag, after awhile. But then, I slept, dozing in the sunspots. At 5.00pm, I got back up, packed my things. Waited for the people to start arriving. I was still so sleepy, and the sun was not helping things. But my legs were starting to relax, and my feet had calmed down (I still couldn’t feel most of my toes, but hey)!

After fumbling through my French and his English, we reached a common consensus; I would camp tonight, with access to everything and internet, for €11.50. Bargain. The second I reached my pitch, I ditched everything and went exploring. Tent set-up could come later – where the hell were the sinks. After familiarising myself with the basics, I realised I was right beside them. Perfect!

I got changed in a heartbeat – into the less-dirty-but-still-significantly-gross of my dirty-and-significantly-gross clothes – and dumped everything else into the massive sink. It smelt foul. Don’t recommend carrying around clothes that haven’t been dry in a week or more in a plastic bag for days, they don’t do great.

My rudimentary attempts at hand-washing them yielded no results, they were too far gone. Fine. I’d fork over the extra few euros – into the washer they go. I had forty minutes to kill; what now?

Now, I’d set up my tent. It wouldn’t rain for the next few days, so I was safe to only half set it up, leaving most of the lines flapping in the breeze. More than alright with me – less to do in the morning, when I’d no doubt be cursing everything again. After that, I snacked on some pesto chips that were,,,, interesting, and decided I wanted to sit and listen to music and write. I still had a blog, after all. And where better to do so that the river?

It seemed a little unfair to give the Deôme the same title as the Rhône, at least this section of it, given at its deepest points it came up to my knees. But still, it was clear, and pretty, and most importantly, water. I’d take it <33 As it turns out, it’s also like fresh melted ice. I dipped a foot in, practically scalding it. Jesus. And then, I realised I’d definitely have to swim. Fucks sake.

(Very) Far downstream from where I swam!
A quick skip to the campsite – number 14 has direct access through the hedge, if anyone else is also too lazy to walk all the way around – to grab a towel, then back I was. Right. This would suck! And suck it did, though my sunburn was grateful.

It took me eons to get fully submerged; far easier to jump in and deal with it all at once – not as much fun inching your way in. But, after a lot of grouching and quick breaths, I was in. Shirtless. Pretty big for me :] It was freezing, and my weird little patches of skin on my elbows were turning purple, my scars blue. When I was entirely shaking, I got out again, bright pink this time.

Shivering, I made my way back to camp, quickly put my clothes in the dryer, had a short but lovely coversation in German with a gray nomad who was exploring France from her campervan, then sat on a little plastic chair and watched the sun set. Still shirtless. Yesterday I had almost cried over the way I looked, but had refused to let tears fall, citing dehydration. Making strides, I guess.

The next forty minutes were up, and I returned to the dryer, sure I’d have to pay for another round. Not the case – they were c r i s p. Warmer than anything I’ve ever felt, I clutched the fabric to my chest, breathed in the smell of fresh laundry. Yum. Then the urgency of the situation hits me, and I run back, stuff them all inside my sleeping bag, roll it tight. Tonight wouldn’t be cold, I wouldn’t let it.

Then, finally, it was shower time. Hot showers – for about two minutes. Fuck that, I’d just swum in the goddamn Deôme – even cold water felt warm. And then I towelled myself off and tugged on my clothes. And dear reader, I do not think you understand. These are the first clean and dry clothes I have pulled on for twelve days. Chaumont was the last my skin has felt soft, warm, clean cloth. I was on cloud nine.

Practically floating out the door, I made my way back to camp, ate another cucumber/cheese/tomato sandwich in the dark. Delicious. Had myself some knockoff oreos for dessert, brushed my teeth and went to bed at 10.00pm. Ha! Not a chance – I got distracted, and read camino blog after camino blog for hours. But now I’m going to bed – it’s around 2.00am now, so we’ll see how late I start tomorrow. And hey, it’s exciting – my first narrative arc (dirty laundry) is over now, what’s next?? What themes will I introduce next episode?? I was starting to Realise things; was I entering the Mind stage?? So many questions – but we’ll just have to wait and see :]

---

Day 14 – September 3rd

St-Julien-Molin-Molette to Bourg-Argental

7.6km

~ 274.4km total

€44.76

~ €414.73 total

 

[sunflowerfunk]

Day 15 : Blessings and Non-Native Wildlife
-Bourg-Argental-

Last night, my alarm set for 10.07am, I had slept like a babe. It was warm – my clothes-in-the-sleeping-bag thing had worked perfectly – which left an extra jumper available for use as a pillow. I was comfortable, and tired, and I had the best nights sleep of the entire two weeks.

Then I woke up at 8.37am, the time of my usual alarm – uh oh. Please let that not be my automatic now !! But honestly, I didn’t even mind. I felt awake, and happy. Happy! In the morning! What the fuck was happening to me?

I got up, got changed. Packed up my tent. Had a spot of breakfast and brushed my teeth. Went to the bathroom while my toilet-neighbour took the kind of shit that had him quietly praying in French with his shirt on the floor. Godspeed, brother.

And then, as I was hand-washing the less-gross-but-still-disgusting clothes from yesterday, I had a,,, curious interaction. The German woman I had met briefly yesterday was back, and feeling very friendly. Her name was Ulrica (I think) – although she had a second Celtic name given to her in a dream, which I cannot remember – and she asked me more about my camino. As it turns out, she was also on the pilgrimage! Just,, with a car!

As I scrunched far-too-brown water out of my shirt, she asked me how old I was.

“Eighteen,” I responded. Then, like a child, “and a half!”

“Oh how wonderful! You have your whole life

ahead of you!”

:]

Eventually, after the better part of thirty minutes, our small talk dwindled, and I told her I needed to be on my way – it was somehow already 10.30am.

She flapped her hands, “Go, go! But first – may I [unintelligible] you?”

Huh?

“Can I,” gesturing wildly, “[unintelligible] you?”

Still incredibly lost, I asked her to talk in circles around it, till I could piece it together.

“Affirm you!”

“Affirm me?”

“Affirm you!”

Expecting some ‘you are strong, you are brave, you are powerful’ girlboss style affirmations, I agreed. And it was only when she held her hands up together over my head and asked me to look down that I clocked what she meant. Oh fuck. She was blessing me.

So down I looked, as she prayed for me. ‘May your journey bring to you God’. She had red nail polish on her toenails. ‘May God guide you, always’. She leant on the left side of her feet, always tilted. ‘May the angels watch over you‘. She,,, wiggled her toes as she prayed?? I was getting very uncomfortable on several levels.

And she finished, hugged me, and then in true Christian style – asked me for a ‘pilgrim selfie’. Sure. Why not. Cheers for the blessing Ulrica, I’ll try to.,. deserve it?

Suitably blessed, I packed the last of my things and hung my now wet (but clean!) clothes off the back of my pack. Today was going to be warmer than the last few, and what better timing! Today was going to be brutal; an almost 800m elevation gain, followed by almost 600m of descent. At least everything would dry.

Into the woods we go :]
And with that weirdly positive spin, I set off. A quick stop by Carrefour for some non-literal-but-literal pain – which had taken me two weeks to realise was like a baguette but More Of It – some pesto, some tomatoes and some oh so yummy peach iced tea (there was a woman restocking the orangina and I got too afraid to grab one), and I was back across the bridge, ready for the start of my climb.

I was in a fantastic mood. Better than I’d been in,, potentially ever. It was something about the campsites, I’m sure of it. If last night was the best, then the night and subsequent day at the Yenne campground was second. I fucking loved camping!

After a short, steep climb up some stairs, you wander along a lovely little forest path above the river for a quick kilometre or two until you get to ,,, Bourg-Argental?

We’re getting cloooose !!

-Bourg-Argental, again-

Turns out I am a liar, and the campsite was not actually inBourg-Argental, just next to it. You follow the shells down the main road, where you pass an ATM (score), and several lovely looking cafes. Unfortunately for you, it’s 11.00am on a Monday – not a goddamn thing in the world is open. But somehow, I’m still feeling great.

You keep left along the road, past the church and it’s bunting, then you dip down a grassy path that follows the Deôme upstream. A small sign will tell you there’s a waterfall, and you’ll get incredibly excited, then immediately realise growing up in the pacific has spoilt you absolutely fucking rotten.

The waterfall in question
As you think about that, climb up a small embankment and stick to the wall between you and the main road. This morning will be mostly in the shade along grass, and it’s brilliant. It heats up, but not badly; you can manage the little chunks of sun. You wind up into the hills, but it isn’t steep, just takes awhile. The wind is alight with the smell of rotting hay. Mmmm. Try to ignore it.

Eventually, the path passes by a few little towns; Mounes, Badol. A place named Board which has just a board with ‘Board’ written on it in the middle of town that definitely won’t take you the better part of a day to realise is not actually just a weirdly perfectly translated joke.

Not that anyone’s yet sick of hearing me say it, but it’s beautiful. There’s these cool tunnels that I mistakenly thought must have, at one point, been railraods – but none of them have any indication of said rails nor are they actually tunnels. Just seem to be weird tunnel-shaped caverns directly into the sides of mountains. I go into the first one I see and hear the sound of something Big moving very fast in the far corner so promptly haul ass back out. At least knowing I’ve awoken some age-old monster from it’s slumber got me to move a bit quicker.

Tunnels to nowhere !
It’s still a few kilometres before my first stop, so I have time to gain a bit back. It’s been a slow 300m climb so far, but as St-Sauveur-en-Rue nears, you really start to feel the pump of your legs. It’s only been an hour or two, but something about today makes it seem like nothing. I am genuinely confused – I feel great. My legs are working as usual, my shoulders aren’t being arseholes. The world feels so,,, good?? What the fuck??


-St-Sauveur-en-Rue-

The last kilometre before the town is especially stunning – it feels like a postcard. Pines as tall as giants tower above you, and through the cracks you can see the ever-present red roofs and white concrete. There’s a tall bridge with wrought-iron rails spinning in patterns as a river flows a hundred metres beneath you. Cows mosey along, bells ringing into the surrounding mountains and echoing back.

Definitely not the last pine picture,,,
So rounding the corner into the first few houses of St-Sauveur-en-Rue is sort of a shock; straight into tennis courts. But they have the funky little street-library that so many other towns also seem to have, which gives it several bonus point. And then – wait. Do my eyes deceive me ?? Ahead of me I count, not just one, but several colourful backpacks. It can’t be,,

It isn’t :[ My brief hopes of reuniting with the Fantastic Four are crushed as I clock that there are five backpacks, and none of them match. Damn. I’ve missed seeing them (and the Germans) every few days. My weird (for a pilgrim) starting times means I’m averaging seeing one pilgrim every two days. It was nice to have a few regulars.

But hey! New people is cool, and maybe they’ll become regulars too. I’m nearing the first three now – but a ‘bonjour :]’ just gets me a nod. Okaaay. All good :] (what???). They pause in the shade, as I continue up. This is where the climb really sends you for a fucking spin; directly up. For kilometres. Oh boy.

Somehow, though, I’m still having the time of my life. My cynic is maybe a tiny bit in control as I write because I still for the life of me figure out why I was doing so well. Crazy. Maybe it was my hard-earned efforts over the past two weeks, maybe it was my evolving endurance and stamina. Maybe I had already grown a lot, without even noticing, and the fruits of my labour were beginning to ripen, as I became fitter and healthier and happier. Or maybe Ulrica just really came in clutch with that blessing. Take your pick!

The first stretch of the climb was brutal, no way to string it. Steep, uneven rocky paths going vertically up – though at some points it winds along the edge, curves to hug the mountain, so that’s not entirely vertical I guess. But definitely enough to count. By the time I made it to the little hut two kilometres in, I was jittery like nothing else. It’s around one thirty now, and I’m starving – so I go for an apple. I need something to push me on, and today that something is lunch. I’ll have it when I reach the highest point, to celebrate. For now; fruit.

They’re just so p r e t t y
I will say, this is the only time my positivity cracked pretty much all day; worlds shittest fucking apple. Tasted like someone had chewed up every other apple in the world and paper machéd them back into a singular apple. Foul. Absolutely chucked it the second I could (except I didn’t, because this is Leave No Trace shit, so I just put it in a pocket till there was a bin because I’m not a grade A asshole <3).

Coasting on the disappointment from the apple, I was joined by the other five. And, for the record, obviously you shouldn’t judge people based purely on where they’re from – books and their covers and all that – but that rule does not apply to Germans. All. Five. There must be something in this French air that draws the Germans; with the addition of these five, I had seen nineteen pilgrims – NINE were german. Twenty and ten, if you counted Ulrica. I’d heard the phrase, ‘you walk in France, you walk with the French. You walk in Spain, you walk with the world‘, but clearly they’d got their shit mixed – everyone you met was German.

It was immensely funny, and only ever (mostly) affectionate, but seriously, what was u p with the sheer volume ? Steeling myself, and, in a true test of who was in control, I promised to speak German with them the next time one of us passed each other – and off I went. Now, if the first climb was rough, this was ,,, sandpaper ? Not least of all because earlier, as I had gone to eat the apple I had such high hopes for, I’d realised my water had spilt absolutely fucking everywhere and I had none left.

But hey, to his credit, somehow no water didn’t phase the optimist half as much as the fucking apple did so! I carried on, covered as usual in my sheen of sweat. Speaking of sheen, turns out I really misunderstood the cast of The Way. Massively popular movie, brings a Ton of (literal) foot-traffic to the Camino, stars Martin Sheen. Martin. I didn’t clock it until right now. Damp Twilight guy was not in it. Fucking Michael.

Desperately trying to envision Martin Sheen as anything other than knockoff Aro, I made my way up the pine forest, which unfortunately did not help. But what did? Competition. That’s right babey, we’re BACK. Today my opponents are the very cute German family who are way too goddamn Spörtlich and seem to not even be breaking a sweat.

As I break even with the first one, I hold true to my promise.

“Hallo :]!”

And then I forget every scrap of conversational German I’ve ever known in my life, scramble haphazardly through a basic swap of details and ditch the competition; now my goal is to run as far away as possible. Not even in a cynic way either, just like,,, a basic assessment of my capabilities. Fight or flight; the latter wins hands down.

It’s okay though, because soon we’re at Le Tracol, and the three of them take a break in the shade. Smart. But without water, I’m trying to limit my time up high, and there’s no taps here. Only two kilometres away from the highest point, and my break, I push on. After momentarily going in several wrong directions, of course.

This last push is pure evil. My legs are on fire, every bone aches and I’m,,,, smiling ?? Deciding it must be an early symptom of dehydration, I spot a small trickle of water coming down from the side of the mountain, disappearing up into thick undergrowth. So, despite its mildly yellow colour, I fill up my bottle. Better something than nothing. It tastes sour, and catches on the back of my throat. It’s going to be a fun climb down.

But then – after what feels like nothing at all and an eternity, I’m at the top. The wind whips around, stirs the small purple wildflowers, eddies around the mossy floor. It sounds like the ocean, really sounds like the ocean. Waves of air, crashing into pine. I can almost smell the salt, feel the spray. God I miss the sea.

Giants :]
The moss makes a perfect napping spot, the air sweet and soft. Shoes and socks off, my aching feet stretch into needles – but they’re numb, and don’t feel a thing. And out comes the pesto. I will never get sick of pesto, or tomato. What a brilliant combination. The Germans pass me as I eat, and not a single part of me stirs. Fear or optimism, call it what you like.

From here, it’s a 1.3km descent into Les Sétoux, the final stage for today. Or at least, it would be, if I stuck to the stages. I’m technically a day behind now that I’ve spent two days mostly resting; first in St-Genix-sur-Guiers and then yesterday in not-Bourg-Argental. And I have, for some reason, decided that even though I took those breaks, I will finish in the recommended amount of days. To do that, I have four days, including today. So, even though it’s almost 4.00pm, I’m planning to keep walking till my legs give out, or the sun goes down, or both.

But first – Les Sétoux. And water. Mmm. The idea sends me whizzing downhill at the speed of light (almost). It’s somehow just getting prettier and prettier the clearer it gets, and I can see for what feels like thousands of kilometres – all the way to alps so far away they look like clouds until you squint. Incredible. How the fuck is this real life?

And the first houses come into view over the hill.


-Les Sétoux-

To be frank, the first street or two gave me quite the scare. No taps. Come on – there! Eau potable! My god! I had long since downed the dodgy yellow water, masking the taste with pesto and (French) pain. It was cold, and clean, and fell directly into a small trough absolutely filled to the brim with tadpoles. Perfect.

After a quick pitstop (water, bathroom, sit down on a bench and reconsider every choice I’ve ever made, listen to a song or two, consider just sleeping here, ponder, reach the same conclusion I do every time), I kept walking. I wouldn’t reach another ‘big’ town (one that had water) today – the closest was 17km away. So I’d have to vaguely ration.

In the distance :]
It was around 4.30pm now – four hours to find somewhere to sleep. Sweet :] The first few kilometres were a breeze, steep downhill and surrounded by rolling fields and pine, always pine. It smelt so specific, but I couldn’t figure out why – it didn’t feel familiar, just,, known.

It was rocky going, and back into the woods for a bit. Once I cleared them though, it was stunning. Sunlight dappling (I fucking love that word sorry if you’re sick of it i will Never stop using it) through the trees, lighting on two small cobble bridges. Just my luck! I leant over the edge, expecting the usual stream, and felt my entire body freeze.

There was a pool. Like,,, big enough to make motions that resemble swimming sized pool. Holy shit. I could swimswim. Almost. Sort of. I could swim more than I’d been able to since Yenne, and that was enough for me. I followed the road around the curve, crossed back into the grass. Reassured by the trampled stems leading to the water, I ditched the pack and shucked off everything but my undies.

When I tell you now that it was the coldest body off water I’ve ever touched, I need you to believe me. Whian Whian in winter at 9* was basically a thermal pool in comparison. Sweet fucking christ. If the Deôme sucked yesterday, oooh man. I’m solidly willing to bet it was only a few degrees and I am not a cold person at the best of times.

Fucking ice !!
Though it took me a (long) while, eventually I just jumped in – and thrashed, screaming. Underwater, of course. It was that kind of head-underwater-instantly-gives-you-brain-freeze kind of rush, and I jumped back out, whooping very quietly. After a few ‘holy shit, holy shit, holy shit’ repetitions, I went back under. My body was on fire, every nerve prickling. I was laughing, and I probably looked mental, but there was no one around and I was just so happy I couldn’t bring myself to care :]

The second dunk was it though, and I was clambering out, vibrating with the biggest shit-eating grin on my face. Towelling off in the sun, absolutely freezing, I realised how lucky I was. Not every day you get to be purple, changing in a field in the middle of France, feeling the most acutely alive you probably ever have.

And then I was dressed, and my blisters were shouting again, and I was back on the path, and nothing could ever go wrong, because I was here and I was alive and I was happy and I was fucking freezing so couldn’t stop even if I wanted to.

I was following footprints, always. Every time I glanced down, I’d see the tessellating lines all mashed together. The forest really added to it; I felt like an extra in the Gruffalo’s Child.

‘Aha! Oho ! Marks in the snow! Whose are these footprints, and where do they go?’

Riding the waves of nostalgia and my love for the Gruffalo and the Stick Man and in general their perfect animation style, I crossed a ridgeline, passed a few cobbled villages and farms, then found myself nearing a tiny town. The first house had mini bunting. I adore the French and their bunting thing, it was so hard to not smile. ‘Look at these colours! These colours in the triangles!’ People were so cute.

 

[sunflowerfunk]

Blessings and Non-Native Wildlife (Part Two)
-Coirolles-

That town was Coirolles , and I dead almost missed the shells. If it weren’t for a portly French man picking beetroots in his garden waving me over and pointing me back in the right direction, I would’ve gone kilometres without realising – the shells were a little sparse today.

Thanking him profusely, I wandered on down. It was another dip and rise, this time into a picturesque little valley, complete with grazing horses, then up into the woods. It was getting darker now, and I was expecting to be shitting bricks a little, but the sun stretched it’s fingers through the branches and flitted far above my head, lit the way. Light and unafraid; optimist me was confident I’d find somewhere before dusk. Somewhere beautiful. I wanted to watch the sunset <33

Horses in the dip <33
The way the woods had worked so far was for every ten minutes in them, the path led you out for another twenty. Once I cleared these, it was really starting to get dark quickly – I’d forgotten that the sun vanished from the valleys first. I had a clear stretch ahead of me, but I could see the next set of woods. As I walked, I debated. Try to get through them before dark, and potentially finish it by torchlight? Or just wait it out till morning?

Eventually, my common sense caught up to me, and I decided not to sleep in dark creepy woods. I kept forgetting that these forests were not like mine – they were crowded, and dark. Also, I had no fucking clue what animals lived in France. Or what noises they made. I’d get way too scared – I was going to cowboy camp anyway.


-???-

As I walked away from the shells, I found the perfect spot – behind a fence. Zappy? I reached out a hand. FUCK.

Undeterred, I clocked that at the bottom of this slope was the path – that meant, technically, it was only fenced off from one side,,,, yeah I totally jumped the fence. Sorry to whoever owns that,, slope ?? I won’t be here long! And as a man and his dog cycled past and he waved, I was reassured. All was well :]

I set up my bed for the night; rolled out the mat to inflate, covered it with the sleeping bag. Got changed into my warmer clothes, and had dinner. The sunset was pink-purple-blue and I wrote as I ate (mm pesto), scribbling about poets and pirates and fights in the fog. All that daydreaming was catching up to me <33

And then, the shiver. Something was watching me. I could feel the eyes. Oh shit. I froze for a second – I had food out in the open. Near the woods. What if Something was coming to get me?! And then, as I slowly scanned, I made eye-contact with the dark, black pupils, jumped. Fuck there’s two of them. And then, I processed.

You can barely make them out, but they’re there :]
Two young deer, with faded white spots. They stood on rickety legs, completely still, at the edge of the corn-field not fifteen metres from were I sat. Holy shit. We watched each other for awhile, and I got the feeling I had the better end of the deal, flowers waving between us. How is this real?

Then, the moment passes by, I shift slightly, and they flee, bounding back into the comforting shadow of the woods. They buck as they go, and I watch them disappear into the trees. Woah. I sit in awe for a bit, waiting to see if they come back. They don’t – but just to be sure, I pack up my food and put it at the foot of a tree further up the slope; I’d rather not wake up to something investigating right next to me.

Not too shabby :]
With the sunset is just getting brighter, I laid down, got comfortable. Tried to conserve warmth. Watched as the sun vanished, as the colours faded. There was a thud from the general direction of the woods – probably a branch. Then suddenly, out of fucking nowhere, I had a visit from Fear. Capital f Fear is like my cynic and my optimist, except they’re united against him – he irritates them both. He’s a tiny child who cannot handle anything. And right now, he’s fully convinced he read somewhere that there’s bears in France.

Which, like ?? Normally ?? Would not be a problem at all, because I could simply look it up and – oh my god what if there’s bears in France and I can’t check ?? I doremember reading about bears here – I’m going to die tonight. No, no, no, I just need my inner two to rationalise.

‘Well, at least it’s somewhat poetic to die after one of the best days of your life!’ Says the optimist.

What the fuck?

‘You didn’t update the blogs, so your family will think you died happy and quick.’ Says the cynic, ‘If they find you, that is.’

,,, Thankyou?

‘Is it better to fight back or just let it eat you?’ Asks Fear.

Shut UP!

And after a hard days slog, my optimist shatters, and I lay stiff as a board, terrified, going back and forth and back and forth with myself.

I could move?

‘Too late; it can probably smell you already.’ Says Cynic.

Cheers.

I set my alarm for 6.30am – if I wake up tomorrow sans being eaten, I want to escape as soon as possible. Withthe light. Unsurprisingly, I don’t sleep great. I wake up every thirty minutes or so, work myself into an almost-panic. My anxious habits come back; I get itchy, and warm, and can’t regulate my temperature. Except this time, I’m in thermals and a sleeping bag and I’ve convinced myself if I get out I’ll die. Not ideal.

I try my usual tricks; count the stars, find patterns. But they’re still unfamiliar, my favourite made-up constellations missing. At some point, I pass out. Not the best way to end it, I know but! Where would be the fun if my optimist always won? (Everywhere).

---

Day 15 – September 4th

Bourg-Argental to ???

24.8km

~ 299.2km total

€8.30

~ €423.03 total

 

[sunflowerfunk]

Day 16 : Baby's First Casino!
-???-

I woke, as promised, at 6.30am. No bears. Not even a nudge at the bag of food. Still, I got up quickly, quicker than necessary. Fear was lingering, curled up somewhere below my throat, hammering his way to freedom. Not today! Okay, maybe a little bit today.

I sped through the first few turns of the woods, before relaxing a little. The sun was back between the treetops, and I was safe. It was the same self-imposed anti-Fear measures as always; a sprint through a dark hallway can only end with a door-slam or a the flick of a light, a bed can only be slept in once checked for monsters, the woods can only be entered with the sun. Fear constituted a bigger chunk of me than either my cynic or my optimist wanted to admit. But, soothed by the sunlight, I rocked the kid back to sleep.

First full sunrise too !
The woods were short, only ten minutes. But I’d made the right choice; after that it was just road. And my reaction had just reinforced it. Last night I’d cried for the first time, almost sent myself into a panic, and managed to anxiously scratch the top of one of my feet raw. Broken skin was not having fun rubbing against the socks. It had been my first real shockwave in a while; the closest I’d gotten over the last two weeks had been the night of the storm past Côte Envers, the first night I thought I’d heard breathing. A good, if a little harsh, reminder that I did also occasionally need to chill the fuck out – but also, that maybe I needed to slow down. Each step a wince, I moved on.

Today, it seemed, Cynic had a bit of a tighter hold on the reigns, because as I made my way down the first descent of the day, all I could think about was how stupid it was that I still got so scared. I wasn’t being too nice, and when I missed a turn, it got worse. Two kilometres down the road, I clocked on. Fuck.

‘Stupid, stupid, stupid!’

Eventually, I got all lame and droopy and dejected and had to sit down and talk myself out of it, forcefully get the cynic to fuck off so the optimist could have a turn. It was all quiet for a minute. And then I noticed the little bees on the white flowers. Jesus. Finally.

In a significantly nicer mood, I followed the (correct) path this time, once again directly uphill. It was shorter, though, only a few hundred metres, but somehow just as steep. Huffing and puffing, I finally made it to the top – where the path split. Hmmm. Straight ahead or to the right? Straight ahead had no signs, but that could be a trick; to the right had arrows, but that could also be a trick.

If it weren’t for the mozzies I’d doze here all day
Deciding some sign was better than no sign, I turned right. Except, naturally, right forked into three more paths. Yellow arrows, red X’s, or white arrows? Yellow stripes had been mostly coinciding with the shells for the past few days – it must be yellow. Bingo! Over the hill, a small town was coming into view. But first, breakfast. Once I reached Monfaucon-en-Velay in an hour or two, I’d be able to buy more bread, so I had the last end. Fresh groceries, how exciting. For now though, I sat in a meadow, ate my bread. Middle of France. Incredible. Insane. What the fuck!

After a few minutes, a man approached from the trees, carrying a wicker basket and looking exceptionally confused.

“Bonjour!” I said, hoping to put him at ease a little.

“Compostelle?” He asked, and I nodded.

“De cette façon?” Pointing towards the town, to double check.

“Non, non!”

Fuck’s sake.

As it turns out, right was definitely not the way to go. It had been straight ahead. And sure enough, by the time I got back and went right on ahead, under the very first branch was the little shell. Sneaky piece of shit. Thankyou wood man. Oh and the wicker basket? Chock fucking full of foraged mushrooms and pine needles and pinecones and moss and all other things which I can only imagine will be made into some incredible potions in his little forest home.

Somehow managing to get lost a further three times, I was infinitely gladder I hadn’t pressed on last night. Knowing how short the last woods were, I would’ve gone on for ‘just one more’, and I could not imagine attempting to navigate this in the dark. Deciding not to dwell on it, I soaked in the sun. My detour had set me back an hour or so, but I didn’t mind. I had all day :]

Finally, after crossing two roads and a farm, I exited the woods, returned to grassy paths beside it. It was beating down, and I could see the church in the distance. I was close!! And good thing too – my feet were aching. Climbs were brutal, even my knee had started buckling again. Regular old athlete, me.


-Montfaucon-en-Velay-

After wandering along the fields for a good half an hour, I came to the outskirts of Monfaucon-en-Velay; one of the bigger towns along the Via Gebennensis, with actual houses and businesses and a main road and a cathedral. Fancy stuff!

And of course, what no French town would be complete without,,,
It took me longer than I’d like to admit to get to said main street – my feet were screaming bloody murder. I’d forgotten to put on two pairs of socks today, and I was paying the price. Ah well, I’d fix them at the church. First, though, I needed bread.

I’d learnt that shops being shut at weird times was a French thing but was s o much weirder at the moment because of school holidays. So I shouldn’t have entirely been surprised when almost everything was shut. Sure, there were a few patisseries with fresh-baked bread in the windows, but my cynic was still in control enough for that to not happen today. I needed a market type scenario with as little French required as possible.

And there it was; my unlikely saviour. The local Casino.

Which is, of course, among the ranks of Netto; knockoff supermarkets. Still, gave me a good laugh for a moment or two. But it wasn’t perfect – no bread for me today. I’d test my luck in Tence, 12km away. But I did buy some peach iced tea. For hydration, clearly.

I found a toilet and water (already??), and refilled. I would not run out today, I was confident. And then, I moved towards the church. Normally, there was always a spot to sit – for a church that’s been putting up signs along the way and on roadsigns as you enter the town, it’s not that great. Sorry Montfaucon. I guess it isn’t its fault – there’s no greenery anywhere, no benches. I don’t have any desire to go into any church I don’t contractually have to, so I press on.

After a few hundred metres, I find (a word I use very liberally, considering it was just Next To The Path) a perfect little meadow. Long, thick, soft, green grass that make waves in the wind. Collapsing and drinking my tea, I take off my shoes and doze for twenty minutes. It’s so warm, but the breeze is perfect. My god, maybe I’ll sleep all day.

No, no, no. Eighteen days. Come on! All I had to do today was make it to Tence. Eleven kilometres now. I could do it, easy. Might’ve overstepped a bit, but the sentiment was there.

The trek to Tence was fucking gruelling; not only did I pass several cheap, incredibly comfortable looking gîtes and chambre d’Hôtes, but it was hot. 36* and climbing. I took another break or two in the shade, had to talk myself out of sleeping here. Too early, come on! Basically, for most of the day I treated myself like a dog. Come on, boy! Jump! If you get to that fence you get a treat!

Great views though :]
Up and down, in and out of the woods. For the first time, music felt like a necessity. I needed to get my mind off my feet and into the air, needed to daydream. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be able to make it, I’d give in to the aches. I distracted myself with a little bit of yearning, balanced it with some extra wanderlust.

For the billionth time: it was stunning. It was mostly gravel roads or rocky paths, and I only crossed a few roads between Montfaucon-en-Velay and Tence. Thankfully; the roadwalking was really starting to do a number on my legs. And it was here, while I was admiring the natural beauty, that I ate shit.

I stepped on an unstable rock, didn’t react quick enough and went slamming down onto the ground – straight on the grumpy knee. Don’t worry, I put my hands out to catch myself – only to lean too far to the right, leaving my green bag to come swinging around and give me a jar of pesto to the teeth for my trouble. Fucking ouch.

Grazed, but not bloody, I picked myself up. Slowly. I was beyond worried about that knee, but it seemed,,, fine ?? Knocked back into place, I suppose. And more good news; as I rounded the corner, I found myself by La Papeterie, the last gîte before Tence. I was so close now, only one more town. And there was more; I was back by the river :] This time, it was the Lignon, and I would follow it all the way to Tence.


-Tence-

As I crested the hill and saw Tence sprawled across the next, relief coursed through my veins. All that was left was bread, and to find the campsite. Easier said than done. It was 2.30pm – absolutely every shop was on break. Damn.

Collapsing in a park under the shade of a tree (pine, naturally), I aired my feet, slept, had some snacks and drank some tea. Then I pulled out the guidebook, trying to locate the campsite. I hadn’t seen any signs so far and – it’s 4km out of town. My god.

Small offerings of luck to the pilgrims – I’d need it!
On we go! I was exhausted, but I knew any longer and I’d convince myself a bench would do – it wouldn’t. There were only two sleeps before Le Puy; tonight and tomorrow. I was going to have a rest day when I arrived, so only one of the two could be inside. That would be tonight. I needed a shower, and some internet. Twenty-first century pilgrimage and all that. I missed talking to people, missed hearing about their days. It was already hard to not really be able to explain the experience properly; to not be able to hear or talk about anything else sucked.

So on I walked, past shops that were still shut, somehow. No bread for me today. But hey, as it turns out? Definitely not 4km. This is why I affectionately don’t trust my guidebook! But, to give my man Engel credit; he’s definitely made it easier to get there.

The campsite is,,, pretty flash. €16.66 for a night, complete with pool, mini farm, river access (no swimming </3), motorbike rentals and ,,, donkey breeding?? Thoroughly confused at the signs I could only half read, I got settled. Tent first, leaving the mat to inflate. Then chores!

Washing my clothes from the day and hanging them out to dry, I realised I’d have to settle my hatred for pools with how badly I wanted to swim. Later – for now, there were blogs to catch up on, and old people sitting on lounge chairs. No thank you.

After brief lovely conversations and accidentally ignoring my brothers attempt to call me before he slept (sorry), I wrote, and wrote, and wrote. These fucking things take forever to write, but I love them. I’m worryingly forgetful, and without these I’d already be missing puzzle pieces from the first week. Like I said at the start, entirely the product of a self-centred author.

Eventually the oldies cleared, and I had my swim, schemed a little. Got a killer leg cramp that had my whole thigh seizing. Schemed a little more. I just had to make 22.5km tomorrow and the day after to get to Le Puy. Aaaaah ! Two days from the end of the Via Gebennensis. Insane :]

I tried to savour the shower as long as I could. It was hot water, really hot. And you’d hope it would be, for €16.66. Burning water pounding into my shoulders was heaven, and I stayed as long as I could justify. Ate a very sad little nibbly dinner, polished off a few snacks. I’d replenish tomorrow. Hopefully. Fingers crossed the French like me then.

Living in luxury tonight <33
But for now, at least one French thing liked me ; the sky. It was warm, and clear, and the stars were out in full force. More shooting stars to add to the counter :] I’d been wishing for the same thing for four years, and now that it had come true, I was sort of scrambling for a new wish. Still hadn’t thought of one – it’d have to be something for later me to figure out. For now, it’s bedtime.

So, hello again :] Sorry about the little anxious break earlier – I just figured it’d be a little unfair to only mention the good things, even if they do outweigh the not-so-good a million to one. I appreciate you sticking around <33

Oh, and in case you were wondering? Less than twenty bears in France.

---

Day 16 – September 5th

??? to Tence

22.4km

~ 321.6km total

€26.86

~ €449.89 total

 

[sunflowerfunk]

Day 17 : Jinxes and Own Goals
-Tence-

I woke up at, drumroll please, 9.16am. Which is, somehow, the latest I’ve gotten up since Yenne. And it felt.,,. awful? I felt groggy and m o r e tired and just unproductive. This is terrible news; it means the science was right. Damn. All these years of attempting to catch up on sleep by blacking out for like,, a day at a time w a s n ‘ t good for me ??

1-0 to my father.

Suitably horrified at the realisation I might actually start becoming a morning person, I got up. Exceptionally slowly. Got myself dressed and clean and packed up. Slowly. Because realisations are great and all, but I still don’t actually want to d o anything.

All jokes aside, I had all day! From what I’d seen, French campsites were crazily lax about checkout times – I’d seen a guy drive out at 6.00pm last night. And I was going to sleep outside anyway, so that meant I had zero time restraints bar the sun, and that still gave me hours. So I took my time packing, un-setting-up the tent. It gave me some more time to write in the sun while the last of my clothes dried anyway :]

Eventually though, I remembered the sun is hot. Yikes. That got me moving a bit quicker, and by midday I was on the road. Now, purist pilgrims are probably feeling lightheaded – breathe. It’s fine. I’d realised awhile ago that I much prefer starting and finishing late – having hours to kill but nowhere to go at the end of the afternoon is lame, but naps along the way and then watching the sunset ?? Hell yeah dude <33

I want to live in the middle one please !!
As I left the turnoff to the camping spot, I rejoined the shells and turned left. We’d be climbing, almost immediately. Woop woop! But first, as if to apologise for the day ahead, the way leads you past this incredible little workshop place where, I can only imagine, dreams are realised. This workshop specialises in ‘chalets’; tiny wooden homes. And they rule.

There’s a classic rectangular-prism-shed-adjacent box, but that absolutely falls to bits next to the submarine themed cylindrical pod. Yeah, you read that right. I spent so long looking at them that by the time I kept going it was already nearing 1.00pm. But could you blame me?? There was a small house that looked like the old scribble cartoon versions of a smurf house (with chimney) that I would move into in an instant, plus one that looked like a hot tub but had stairs going down to where the mini-house was ?

Mood boosted to new heights, I finally started the climb. Today was another stage-and-a-bit day – as I’d stopped in Tence, I had just over 8km to make up (according to the guidebook, which was never that accurate), until I arrived in St-Jeures, where my actual day would begin. Still wasn’t entirely sure why I was insisting on finishing by the time the guidebook said, considering I’d spent all of maybe three nights ‘on stage’, but whatever!!

And, like always, it was a pretty first eight kilometres :] It was a mix of pine forest and the meadows and fields I’d come to know over the past few days. And as I began passing my first few towns of the day, I realised how incredibly different the landscape was to that of the first week. Or even to the second! If you’d shown me a picture of the pine forest last week I wouldn’t have guessed it’d be the same path – long gone were the days on days of corn fields and the soft-leaved greenery of the Swiss border, gone were the sloping, continuous hills of the first 200km.

The wildlife hadn’t changed much, at least
And then I sort of had an ‘oh shit’ moment where I realised how far 350km was. I was nearly a third of the way through France. Through an entire country. I still had the better portion of 800km to go – the landscape would change more than I could keep track. I was now on my last full day of the Via Gebennensis, and tomorrow I would arrive. The Via Podiensis was big – the rest of my way even more so – on it’s own it was more than double the Via Gebennensis. Oh boy.

And as I had my first, then second, and then quite a few more ‘oh shit’s, I passed the first house of St-Jeures.


-St-Jeures-

As someone I love dearly would say, “jinxing isn’t real, it just coincides with something that has a high likelihood of occurring.’ Or something like that – my persnickety-ness isn’t quite as good as theirs. However, at this point, I’ve decided it is completely 100% real and Always True and I should never say anything again because holy shit? The French do hate me.

There’s no store in St-Jeures, at least, none that I see when I walk past the outskirting village, attempting to scout. There’s apparently one in town, but it’s done for the day and even if it wasn’t, I can’t find it for nothing. Ah well, I’ll just restock at the next – oh there’s no shops today? Awesome.

16,942km away from kind of almost not really anywhere from where I lived :]
I stop anyway, exhausted. This is a La Ferme de 1000 Couleurs kind of day. I feel like I’ve been walking all day, and it’s only been two hours. I can’t get food, which means I’m stuck with an apple, my last cashews and some pesto and tomato. For the next day and a bit. But hey – at least there’s water! Realising I’m almost out, I fill my water-bladder and bottle and repack my bag.

Y’know, I heard a lot of people say not to get a bladder and just use bottles instead but my god do people not drink ever? I would run out of the water in my bottle every thirty minutes if I tried that! Plus, it’s so much easier to push on if I don’t have to stop for water. Anyway, that doesn’t matter in regards to the whole food dilemma, I just needed to get that out. Back to the problem at hand!

Now, my choices were sort of split; I could walk to St-Julien-Chapteuil, around 17km away (guidebook says – so it’s definitely a rough guess but hey), where the classic stage would end for the day o r I could walk to where I was originally planning to stop, in Queyrières, just about 11km away. There were pros and cons to both; St-Julien-Chapteuil did have shops, but I’d get there too late anyway, and it’d be a Long day. On the other hand, Queyrières was closer, but I’d still have to cross the distance in the morning. St-Julien-Chapteuil it was!

Preparing myself for a rough next few hours, I down an apple and a handful of cashews. As I air my feet for a few minutes, another group of five arrives. Not the five from last time, just a different set of five Germans. I felt like I was collecting them.

First views of Araules !
The path out of St-Jeures follows the main road, then turns sharply right then right again (only, it turns right after the shells tell you, so try to avoid walking into that rando French backyard, if you can. It dips (again) in and out of pine forests on rocky paths for a few kilometres before you see the volcanic bluff of Araules in the distance.


-Araules-

The road to Araules is more than a little deceptive – you see it directly on the hillside opposite, but the path itself seems to take the longest possible route, winding slowly down the side, then aaaaall the way around the hill, then sloooowly up. But eventually, you’ll arrive, gross and sweaty, to find an open boulangerie not acknowledged by your guidebook. Yes. And it’ll have the most delicious baguette you’ve ever eaten. Yes. But you’ll almost have a breakdown when the lovely cashier asks a follow up question you weren’t expecting and can’t understand. No.

Either way, walking can wait; it’s time for lunch. Immensely relieved I won’t have to ration my cashews, I enjoy a flawless pesto-tomato sando. Yum. I love pesto!! Dinner and breakfast for tomorrow sorted, it’s time to re-deliberate. Was it worth still pushing on? Queyrières was still seven kilometres away, St-Julien double that.

With my need to shop vanquished, and the only thing pushing me on being the desire to finish on time, I slowly came round to the idea of stopping. I could make up the extra seven tomorrow – 25km wasn’t unmanageable, and I was planning to start early anyway. A bench at Queyrières would do perfectly.

Pretty flowers on the way :]
My rest in the near, I kept walking. All that lay between me and Queyrières was,,, the last fucking mountain. 300m of elevation gain over the next kilometre. Ouch. But – no fear! It was pretty :]

I passed by several houses seemingly enjoying last-day-of-holidays activities; siblings chucking each others toys on the roof then sweeping them back down, paper plane races and cartwheels. One girl attempting to land a handstand into an arch, stacking it, her mother and I giggling and her low ‘nooooooo‘ as she realised someone saw her. I didn’t feel too bad though; she collapsed into a fit of laughter a moment later.

Smiling and sentimenal, I carried on through the village of Pialevialle, as the path began to creep upwards. This time, I was borderline open-mouthed as I walked; had it not been for my dwindling water and how dry it constantly felt, I would’ve been. The climb is manageable, more than so. The first chunk is on uneven, rocky ground, but soon you come to a road and wander on for the better part of two kilometres, and it’s so pretty you forget you’re road walking.

More pine photos – is anyone surprised ?
It’s fairly isolated, it seems, because there are barely any cars – just you and the pines. These are properly massive ones, reaching out into the clouds. The sunlights just trickling on through, and the birds are s o loud. Since halfway through the first week, eagles have been everywhere, but here you can hear the young, hear the whip of air as they pass by overhead. So distracting is the mini-stroll that you barely notice you’re only fifty metres from the top.

Raffy is another village, standing directly at the highest point of the entire Via Gebennensis at 1,276m above sea level. You have an incredible view over the surrounding mountains, and as I step gracefully downhill (stumble repeatedly), I try to squint through the glare of the sun and find Le Puy. There’s a few towns, and some glints peppered around the horizon, but nothing that screams ‘town of 20,000 people’. Evidentially, I still didn’t know how far kilometres were – 26.5 seemed like it should be visible.

Mountains ! And somewhere – Le Puy
From Raffy, it’s a quick few kilometres until you reach Queyrières – entirely downhill, of course. But soon, it comes into view, complete with church against the jagged basalt rocks.


-Queyrières-

Wandering on down into town, you pass by some open fields and meadows – I’m telling you, wild-camping is easy enough to do stealthily, as long as you keep an eye out!!

But soon, you arrive to pilgrim haven; a small rest stop with shaded benches, potable water, toilet (with paper), and a sink with soap. Such luxuries cannot be overstated. Speaking of luxury, I have decided to forgo my night on the bench in Queyrières, trading it instead for a bench in St-Julien-Chapteuil. Plot twist! We’re walking more. It’s nearing 6.00pm, which still gives us two and a bit hours to find somewhere, and should be more than enough time to get us the 7.3 kilometres to our next bench.

As I head off, a tiny voice in the back of my head goes, ‘hey, so we’ve been deliberating back here and we think maybe actually this isn’t the best idea? We’re all pretty exhausted, you’ve got some Really strong capital f Feelings happening, your feet are shot, and we would like a good nights sleep – and not just for us, for you! You should be affording yourself the same kind of care you’d tell others to, and lead by example. Listen to your body and all that. So please, consider taking a break, stubbornness won’t get you anywhere.‘

And to that little voice I say, “shut up!!!”.

On we go.

More mountains <33
Almost immediately from Queyrières you begin to see the town of Monedeyres on the next hill over, and it’s all the red roofs and white walls that never get tiring – every single town feels like something out of a movie. The downhill gets even steeper here, verges on a cliff. The rocks are fickle, and the ones that look most secure send me stumbling downhill, knees taking the brute of the force. Maybe walking sticks might have been smart actually.

1.5-0 to my father.

The sun is getting lower, the light dropping. It’s warm, still, and for that I’m glad. Here in the village, I befriend a dog. It’s by complete accident – I rustle as I walk, and she seems to like the sound. She accompanies me down the next slope to Le Moulin de Guérin, which, as my book tells me, is notoriously tricky; not physically, but signage wise. Here, the GR65 and it’s classic red/white markings diverge from the shells for the first time; they’re much easier to spot, and in most cases can be used almost interchangeably with the blue and yellow.

So I’m glad for the company as she hunts beside me, definitely fucking up the natural order while she’s at it. She sticks with me down and back uphill, leads me past the divergence then to a crossroads where all markings vanish. In the woods. As it gets dark. Oh boy. She wanders to the right with such confidence that I decide to follow her, and as I round the first corner, she turns tail and trots back to the village, ten minutes away. And I look up to see the first shell. Clever girl :]

My temporary companion :]
Following them even further downhill isn’t ideal, considering the sun has definitely ditched the valleys by now, but I try to stay calm with the knowledge that I’m right by the village of Le Moulin de Guérin. Which is, of course, just a historical site of just a Really Old House at the complete bottom of the valley, in the woods, in the dark. Nice.

With Fear alive and well, I start the climb back up, doubled in two to give myself momentum. Get me out of here. Woods in the day ?? 1000/10, beautiful, wouldn’t trade it for the world but the second the sun goes down they become freak hell. Tragic – they have such perfect hammock-spaced trees.

I listen to some music to ease the Fear, try not to spill my capital f Feelings all over the place. Exhausted me is not the best at emotions, and I’m really scrambling for control as I finally round the curve and re-enter the sunlight. Thank God. Re-bottling that lovely pit of loneliness and shutting fear up, I reach the next settlement.


-La Chapuze-

I don’t ever want to give the illusion that I’m in any way getting fitter – if anything, my days seem to be getting shorter and my breaks longer – but I mooch on into La Chapuze firmly convinced I can’t take a single step more, and I leave within five minutes.

It’s the view – I can see St-Julien-Chapteuil. It was, like the last few, just a hillside away. And it was big, which meant shops in the morning to restock; I was low on almost everything. So on I went, feet like concrete blocks, plodding down the road and only going the wrong way once (score). The sun was really going down now, and I’d accidentally timed it perfectly. Long, orange lines crossed the asphalt, pink stained the sky. I couldn’t quite concentrate on that though; I was focused on something new. A few too many coincidences.

My lame little superstitions were one of my favourite things to expand. Shooting stars were great, but they weren’t the only wishing opportunities. Santa-Clauses blowing in the breeze, dandelions in summer, looping numbers, late night aeroplane lights, endless repetitions. I had strung my wishes on every fairylight strand and flying kite I’d seen since I was a kid.

So on I wandered, trying out new wishes. I didn’t know what angle to approach it from – there wasn’t really anything else I wanted. I was sort of living the dream at the moment, and had been for the past few months. I was happy. What else did people wish for?


-St-Julien-Chapteuil-

By the time I arrived, 2km later, I didn’t really have an answer. I’m sure there’s something – I’ll just have to figure it out later. For now though, I’m approaching a park. Which means I’m approaching a bench. Which means; bedtime.

:]
And so I watched the sun dip red under the horizon as the local park cat tried to hunt something making little sounds in the leaves. I loved the feral French cats; they were everywhere! And sure, they were, with 100% certainty doing irreparable damage to the natural local ecosystems, but they were so cute doing it <33

I’ll bid you goodnight here though – the cars are starting to slow, and I have an unfortunately early start tomorrow. But it’s kinda cool that I’ll end my last night on the Via Gebennensis the same way I ended my first; with you, on a bench, watching the stars through the leaves. No corpses this time though, sorry :]

---

Day 17 – September 6th

Tence to St-Julien-Chapteuil

23.7km

~ 345.3km total

€3.20

~ €453.09 total

 

[sunflowerfunk]

Day 18 : Stubbornness Gets You to the End, Actually
-St-Julien-Chaptueil-

You can barely even see the shell !!!
I’ll be honest, last night wasn’t great. Picked an awful bench, had a streetlight in my eyes, couldn’t get comfortable, all the usual whines. I had planned to be up around 8.30am, to restock, but I had my boots on the way with the stars still in the sky.

It was dark, and fucking glacial. I shivered and shook my way out of town, treading the sides of the highway. I had taken a few wrong turns, but I’ll blame that on the lack of light. My first stop was Marnhac, six odd kilometres from my bench; there, I would eat. On the way, the sun would rise – I’d get the best views, I rationalised, trying to ignore the cold (I failed).

Beasts in the fog :]
It was a wicked sunrise, and I got to watch all the stages. The first twinges of blue, covering up the stars, lighting up the ground as I split from the road back into rocky paths – no more missed trail markers :] The fog was thick on the ground, and every so often I could see the cows lumbering through. Eerie old beasts, but sweethearts. Then the bridge came into view, and the first houses.

Not of Marnhac, not yet – but of Tournecol. A small smattering of houses built into another staggering basalt mound, covered in pines and ash that began to catch the first real sunrays of the morning. It was so, so quiet. I stuck to pavement, tried to minimise crunching on the gravel as I walked past the sleeping town.

And then up, again, further into the pines, where the sunlight finally broke. So fucking pretty, my god I loved pine trees :] (in the light). As you make your way up, the eagles creak and soar over you, sending shadows flitting across your path. It’s warm, the sun on your back, but not hot, not yet. Maybe early morning starts are understandable. Maybe.

Breaking Dawn : Part I

-Marnhac-

The top of the climb will find you overlooking Marnhac, and the surrounding villages, a mishmash of larger towns. St-Germain-Laprade to the left,,,,, other ones (??) to the right. The sun is up now, and it’s right about 8.00am. But there’s no benches yet, so we’ll press on. After a little more uphill downhill, you’ll find one, overlooking the valley below, and, in the not-so-far distance, Montjoie, the last hill to climb before Le Puy.

Shadow photos are so f u n
It’s a doozy this morning, baguette with pesto and the last few cherry tomatoes. Never gets old. I’m legally allowed to make that claim, haven eaten it for every meal bar two for the last eighteen days. And as I sit and eat, I watch two cool things happen. One; I watch two hot air balloons rise from different corners of the sky, and meet in the middle, and two; I watch the first kids get picked up by the bus.

It’s back to school time! It takes me a moment to process the lack of uniforms, and even longer to realise that shops might not have such insane opening hours any more. Let’s go. Perfect timing for the rest of my journey through France, which was, if I hadn’t mentioned it enough, starting so soon. Today I would finish the Via Gebennensis, tomorrow I would have a day to rest and restock, and on Saturday the Via Podiensis would begin. Exciting stuff :]

Anyway, pesto finished and tongue almost sliced open on the pocket knife, I moved on. A quick wander down some hilly farmland on gravel roads (nice) and a while of walking parallel to the highway (not as nice), and I was in St-Germain-Laprade. Broadly uneventful – though presumably only because it was so early – I refilled my bottle and carried on. I wanted to make it to Le Puy before the campsite reception inevitably closed for lunch.

Slightly creepy nativity set,,,,
By the way? The French have it nailed, the whole life thing. Wake up at 8.00am, do a job for three hours, disappear without a trace until 3.00pm, have a few hours before sunset, watch the sunset from your cool garden then vanish till 8.00am. It was incredible. Midday naps were common, and I regularly walked past people sleeping in the shade, hikers and locals alike. No one is allowed to let me move to France but man you can let me dream.

Anyway, it was only another 12.5km to go. 12.5km and my Via Gebennensis would be over. Crazy. Unfit and generally gross as I was, I’d have walked 350km in 18 days, even with two rest days. Stubbornness wins, sometimes <33

Past St-Germain-Laprade was Montjoie, the mountain. It was really starting to heat up now, and the climb inevitably sucked accordingly. But I was propelled with excitement, with the knowledge I’d have not one, but two nights inside. That’s right, I was splurging. Municipal campsites babey, living in luxury. Although, they supposedly had pilgrim rates, hot water and washing machines, so that, to me, made it essentially glamping.

From the top of Montjoie, you get the first views of Le Puy. So naturally, I took photos. Only, they aren’t of Le Puy. I was looking in the wrong direction. Go figure.

Anyway, down I went. I was counting down the places to go, places to pass. Next was Brives-Charansac, three odd kilometres from the top of the mountain. I passed it within ten minutes – a record. Then down, down, down, for another twenty, where I reached,,,, Brives-Charensac ??


-Brives-Charensac-

So turns out my little book didn’t give me the name of the little village I passed, so it must have been an outskirt. No matter – now I was here. I wandered down the road, saw a sign for camping 500m away, got re-confused (there was no camping in Brives-Charensac?), thought I was already in Le Puy, walked in a few circles, then clocked that my guidebook must just have missed it. Rightio.

I turned right on the main street, followed it past delectable shop after delectable shop. The smell of donor kebab has never once appealed to me in my life, but today it smelt like heaven. I was fiending. I needed a feed – but I needed a rest first. Over the old bridge, Pont des Chartreux, across the river. A few more wrong turns (I hated cities), and two kilometres alongside the water. I was getting close, really close. From Pont des Chartreux it was only 4km – I could make it. I wouldn’t rest till I arrived.

After another twenty minutes, I had made it almost 3km. I was so, so close and there, there were the yellow signs and I had made it!


-Pont des Chartreux-

To Pont des Chartreux. The other bridge was unrelated. Okay but now there were 4km left. I was taking a break.

My lovely little dozing tree <33
Luckily for me, I seemed to not be the first to make the mistake; shaded benches lined the path. I took one beneath a lovely tree and ate my last cashews. I was officially out of everything, but with 4km left I didn’t mind. That was,, what? A little over an hour? I’d be fine. With that, I dozed.

After forty five minutes, I woke up sunburnt. Fuck. I also woke up to rustling, and a quick peek to my right confirmed my suspicions; my first snake :] He was a beautiful little thing, ashey gray with black zigzags, and he hurried quickly into the leaves. A European Adder, as I later found out. Lovely little guy.

Sitting up, a cyclist passing by laughed and gestured to my hair, which was suitably bed-headed. Pros and cons of benches, I guess. Tugged on my boots, steeled myself, and began the final stretch. Luckily for me, the first kilometre or two followed the river. Way more manageable than the few hundred metres of side-of-the-road walking that bought me beneath the Le Puy welcome sign but hey, I’ll take it.


-Le Puy-en-Velay-

Like other towns, I arrived in Le Puy a significant time before I arrived. Unlike other towns, Le Puy was massive. It took a while. But hey; I was back by the river. The Borne, this time, which kept me company as I traversed the most insanely long bike trail through the longest public park I’ve ever seen. Loads of shade though, which was quite lovely. I’d forgotten to put sunscreen on again, and my newly burnt skin was having a great time.

But still!! I was here!! I had made it!! Holy shit!! 350km down, all I had to do was get to the campsite without stopping and collapse in the shade and oh my god is that a Lidl??


-Lidl-

I spent a lot.


-Le Puy-en-Velay, Again-

Armed with cold juice and chocolate, bread and tomatoes and pesto and cheese and tuna and cucumber and ready to take the world, I emerged back into the sun. Ouch. Stopped, repacked everything, strapped the pain (French) to my rucksack. Never got less funny, that. Only the essentials; tent, mat, bread. Living the dream.

Got significantly lost (again), made my way almost fully to the big fancy cathedral before remembering the campsite was the other way and I only wanted to go into the churches when I had to, walked the wrong direction again, and eventually saw the campsite, arriving just in time for the French to vanish. Fuck me.

Chapel St-Michel on top of its two hundred something stairs
Shade it was. Shoes off, pack off, I revelled in the completion of my journey with some Comté that surely wouldn’t be disgusting now because I’d grown to love it so much and – ew ew ew ew nope nah. Either I was going insane, it was a bad brand, or the ten minute walk had somehow spoilt it already. Pros and cons of the heat. Not to worry, I had an entire tin of tuna to get through. I was going for variation today, and it was not going well. Lesson learnt : I’d stick with pesto.

Somehow, I got more weird looks eating a tin of tuna than I did the whole sleeping-on-benches thing. Oh well! Full and tired, I dozed till the French reappeared, checked in. €9.00 per night, yes please! Ready for relaxation, I walked to my pitch – directly next to a group of what seemed to be every American in France. All cycling. All grating (sorry I’m sure they’re lovely).

I set up camp, called my family. It was nice, and kept me conscious while I got myself organised. Eventually the internet collapsed when my newest pitch-mates arrived; a group of French bikies. Tonight was going to be fun. Then I slept, muggy heat pressing on my chest, familiar and summery.

When I woke, I wrote. I had promised myself a hot dinner to celebrate, but I was ignoring that – I’d eaten too much lunch, had no room anymore. I’d also downed a litre of juice because it was cold and delicious, but I’m sure that had nothing to do with it.

So I wrote and rambled and wrote, scribbling till the sun went down. I had grand plans, after all. Soon, I’d shower and sleep, but I’m leaving early tonight. An extra post in the works and all that; a busy blogger tonight. I sort of can’t believe I’ve remembered to write every day, this never happens. And I won’t let the jinxing win this time. Goodnight, and I’ll see you soon :]

---

Day 18 – September 7th

St-Julien-Chaptueil to Le Puy-en-Velay

18.4km

~ 363.7km total

€37.16

~€490.25 total

 

[sunflowerfunk]

The Via Gebennensis : An In-Depth Report (Kinda)
After 363.6 kilometres and eighteen days, I finished the 350 kilometre journey from Geneva, Switzerland, to Le Puy-en-Velay, France. I crossed the majority of the Auvergne-Rhône-Alps region on foot, tested my physical limits, and learnt how to budget (almost). It was a taster of what was to come, but I wanted to give it the respect it deserves; in the form of a ‘report’.

Before I set off, I read every blog I could find, poured over forums, tried to research. A lot of it I found quite discouraging, or lacking in descriptors. Had it not been for my occasionally stupid stubbornness, I might have given the Via Gebennensis a miss. It was too mountainous, too tricky. I had no practice, and I was out of shape. I needed to train, and it would not be something I would do. But, as it turns out, most of it seems to be bullshit. So, here’s my rough overview instead :]


Terrain :

Broadly speaking, the terrain is hilly. Where hill ends and mountain begins, I don’t entirely know, but it definitely crosses in some points. But, and this is exceedingly important; it isn’t the steep and treacherous climb I had been expecting. There were a few rough days; the stretch before Seyssel, the climb before and after St-Julien-Molin-Molette, and the last few days from Bourg-Argental came to mind. Steeper, rockier paths. But nothing unmanageable.

From Geneva, it almost immediately became hilly, but they were slow slopes. Most of the time, they were draining, but not world-ending. The first few days are definitely also rough, when your legs are still adjusting to the gradual increase, to the sustained effort. You feel awful and unfit, if you push it. Do not be discouraged! Every day, you’ll be experiencing at least one noticeable up, and one noticeable down. The downs are a little more precarious – in the rain, they can become quite slippery.

But besides that, it’s fairly uniform. There is a significant amount of road walking, so be prepared for that – as the Gebennensis is still relatively new (only made in the 1990s), it’s trails are perhaps a little rustic (although I haven’t yet experienced the rest, so maybe I’m just spoilt). If not roadwalking, you’ll find yourself on paths you share with vehicles regardless, from tracks in the grass to gravel paths, asphalt, chunky stone and occasionally, much to your impending delight, mud.

The scenery is stunning throughout, even on days were you follow fields on fields of crops, or when the ups are UPS. Don’t take any of it for granted; it’ll change before you realise it’s gone :]

Speaking of taking things for granted; the trail markings can be a little testy. I get overwhelmed in cities, so that definitely didn’t help, but the first chunk of Geneva through Carouge takes a fucking minute to get used to. Majority of the time, the trail is clear, and the shells are everywhere. When they aren’t, the red/white GR65 stripes are. Follow them, and you should be fine. I got lost a few times, and I would argue all bar one were my fault, not the markings. While I fully think you could walk the Chemin sans guidebook or downloadable map, I understand why. A book was helpful for me, purely to know what the towns would have in the way of food – the navigation I left to the shells.


Resources :

As previously mentioned, the trail is new. It connects older pilgrimage routes with the Le Puy-en-Velay starting point, and as such is mostly a crossover route, or one walked by other Europeans in stages over several years. It’s pilgrim infrastructure leaves a little to be desired, but even so it’s perfectly navigable.

Accomodation is (understandably), most pilgrims first concern – I unfortunately don’t have much first hand experience. I stayed in numerous campsites, almost all of which offered pilgrim rates or perks, and slept outside most other nights. Campsites are, by far, the most economical (and legal) way to sleep, but for those who are perhaps not wanting to add the extra weight of a tent, gîtes work just the same.

Usually, I noticed a minimum of one gîte per town, or at the very least a Chambre d’Hôtes, La Ferme de pelérins or acquiel pelérins – all perfectly useable forms of pilgrim accomodation. From what I could see or experience, most nights (without food), averaged out somewhere between €20 and €30; with half-pension (dinner and breakfast), around €30 to €50. France is significantly more up itself than Spain seems to be, and therefore (unfortunately) far more expensive.

Although August/September seems to be ‘high season’ here for tourism, the two gîtes I stayed at had one other person each, who both seemed as surprised as I was to see someone. It was unclear to me if it was just the timing, or if I was just staying ‘off-stage’, or if it really was just such a quiet trail (I averaged seeing 1.4 pilgrims per day). I wouldn’t stress about booking ahead – unless you want to stay somewhere that specifically requires it – usually a phone call in the afternoon to check they have spare beds is enough. If you’re hoping for demi-pension, a ring in the morning is best, so they can buy ingredients accordingly.

Speaking of food; food. A lot of villages have a bar, which usually serve some classic pub food, and the slightly larger ones tend to have at least one auberge (restaurant) or cafe. Again, a topic I can’t speak much on, given that I bought and carried most of my own food in the form of sandwiches. But, I can confirm that if you manage to trick the French into being alive and about at the same time you are, local boulangeries and épiceries tend to be stocked full of bread and baked goods, as well as fresh fruit and usually some pantry staples – more than enough to cobble a meal together with. Just pay attention to your guidebook; you don’t want to be caught without food for kilometres. Walking hungry does not feel great.

Neither does walking thirsty, arguably even more so. My advice is; if you see the water, take it. If it’s potable, brilliant. Fill up every time you see one – they have a cheeky habit of vanishing for the better part of a day every time you ignore one. Or look harder than I did, which is also entirely likely to help. But even if it’s non-potable – if you have nothing, take it. Non-contrôlé has proven, in my case at least, to be fine. Unless it looks visibly undrinkable, something is better than nothing. Obviously, try to stick to potable water, but don’t risk being caught out with nothing. I improperly assumed that, like I’d heard of the Frances, the Gebennensis would have water fountains in every town. It did not.

The last few infrastructure bits and bobs; toilets. Most bigger towns (shops, main street, etc.) will have public toilets, but don’t count on it. If they’re anywhere, they’ll be near the church or the Marie (the town hall). Very rarely will you encounter a western toilet – most are squat toilets. Most also don’t have toilet paper; prepare accordingly. Public wifi is also not even close to as common as it has been in other places I’ve visited, which probably won’t be a shock to you if you consider 20,000 people a small population. But, if you consider that massive ; there’s your reminder. If you ever need help navigating or are really lost in bigger towns, tourist offices (Office de Tourisme) can help. Allegedly, they can also help you book accomodation, but I had no experience with that.


Difficulty :

I’m not going to say it’s easy, because I know I’m fully jaded by retrospect and the proof is in the pudding (I still have the Camino wobble and wince everytime I straighten my legs). But I’m also not going to say it’s thathard. I’m overweight, and have been for the better part of the last five years. Before setting out, I did close to zero daily exercise, generally ate like shit, and did zero training walks or preperation whatsoever. I was fine.

Some days felt neverending, and I’m pleased to say more muscles have cramped than I was aware I even had, and I’ve popped a disgusting amount of blisters – but I was okay. After a sleep or a sit down in the shade to air my feet, I was always able to keep going. I’m a stubborn arsehole, so I made myself get to Le Puy in eighteen days. You don’t have to! It was a stupid, self imposed rule that realistically makes no sense. Take rest days, take twenty days to finish, take thirty. Doesn’t matter, at all.

Again, the difficulty is,, sort of what you make it? If you’re also really unfit, that doesn’t mean you automatically can’t do something, and I find it so fucking patronising when people espouse shit like that. If you don’t want the hassle of getting to Geneva for something you might not be able to do, fair play! If you want to practice, fair play! But if you just take it slowly, and rest frequently, I think anyone could do it.

Unless you’ve got an actual mobility impairment – the Via Gebennensis definitely has eons to go in terms of equal access, and a very rough search hasn’t yielded much in terms of history with any wheelchair users; sadly, you’ll probably have more luck on the more travelled Caminos with better infrastructure.


Gear :

I brought a Lot of shit with me. To be clear, I use everything – but it’s still a lot of shit. I’m not 100% on the weight of some things, but it’s enough that it sucks. So, to avoid other people repeating my mistakes (or inspiring them to), here is my gear list, in full, and my thoughts/changes. This will probably be incredibly long and boring for anyone not really planning on the walk, so feel very free to skip to the funny numbers <33



> Clothing

5 pairs Carrefour ‘sport’ socks – 4/10. They are socks! So they get four automatically, but they’re thin and cheap (shocker), and don’t protect well against blisters. Will replace.

1 pair merino socks – 8/10. Still a tad thin, but that’s more on me than them. Comfortable, stops blisters, love them. Need to get more (after the other two fell out of my pack!).

1 pair THICK merino socks – 10/10. Warm, cosy, brilliant for the cold. Also do well for hiking, in a pinch, though not preferred.

3 pairs bamboo undies – 9/10. Holds up in heat, don’t get gross, comfortable, really light, cheers to Tradie for that one. Loses a point for fraying.

1 pair cotton undies – 5/10. Basic – work but not great for hiking, used mainly just when washing the others. Will ditch.

1 set of Bonds thermals – 10/10. I fucking love thermals. My god. Soft, warm, comfortable, t i n y, great for layering in the cold (and I imagine for hiking in winter).

1 pair Mountain Designs convertible hiking pants – 8/10. Generally work great, roll up into shorts so you don’t have the annoying zip, protective, big fan. Loses points for,, balling? Not fraying but collecting little buds of fabric everywhere, and for not quite fitting right anymore (which I guess is a positive so!).

1 pair anko boardies – 7/10. Loose, don’t fit great, can’t hike in them. But good for warmer nights, wearing while washing the other pants, swimming, lounging, just generally everything. And they’re lightweight!

1 rashie – 10/10. Got it in Target like five years ago and has never let me down. Comfortable, lightweight, lovely.

1 cotton t-shirt – 3/10. Cotton takes eons to dry, and most mornings it was still damp. Also, the only shirt I walked in. Not comfortable, or suited. Will replace.

1 merino wool tshirt – 8/10. Grown on me, but still scratchy (it was cheapie shit, get what you pay for), and too warm to hike in. Perfect for layering in the cold.

1 Cape pack-it rain jacket – 4/10. I think I just don’t like rain jackets. It’s lightweight, rolls up crazy small and is easy to pack/unpack. But I hate rain jackets.

1 Kühl zip-up jacket – ??/10. Haven’t really worn it as a jacket for long enough to judge it yet, considering it is mostly my pillow but it does great at that so!!

1 Mountain Warehouse fleece – 7/10. Solid freece, comfortable and soft, but not quite enough for the cold. Which again, isn’t really its fault but hey.

1 pair Ronhill thermal gloves – 7/10. Keeps my hands,,, less cold, although definitely leave something to be desired. Won’t get rid of them, just also wouldn’t recommend spending $40 on them.

1 Chute beanie – 8/10. Stretched the fuck out of it accidentally but that works because now I pull it over my face when I sleep so I don’t get a cold <33 Warm, little too chunky but I’ll let it slide.

1 nondescript Aussie sunhat – 10/10. Have not to date gotten a sunburn on my face, keeps my hair out of my eyes, doubles excellently as a fan or storage bin within my bag when I have to unpack/repack, huge fan.

1 pair Keens Targhee III Mid WP shoes – ??/10. Confused, don’t really know how to rate shoes, getting blisters and parts of my feet hurt but don’t know if its the shoes’ fault so ??/10 it is.



> Actual Gear Things

1 Osprey Lightspeed Manta 34 50L rucksack – 8/10. Roomy, gives me enough space to strap all my things in/on it. Fit on the shoulders and hips isn’t great for me, but it’s manageable. Comes with a 2.5L water bladder which rules.

1 Mountain Designs Redline 1P 3 Season Hiking Tent – 10/10. I love this fucking thing. Even if it’s 1.5kg, it’s perfect to me. Tiny, but roomy, easy to set up (and quick, can be set up improperly (without stakes) and still work great, rolls up compact, fits in the outside pocket of the bag. Also has a repair kit, which is handy.

1 Weisshorn Outdoor Expert self-inflating mat – 4/10. I was much more enthusiastic about this before I left; unfortunately it just doesn’t seem to do the trick. Also; it’s slippery and everytime I sleep on an incline I get smushed by gravity. Not ideal. Unsure of whether to replace or ditch entirely. We’ll see!

1 Weisshorn Outdoor Expert sleeping bag – 5/10. Wouldn’t have gotten this far without it, will definitely not be going any further with it. Don’t know why I thought this was a good idea it is entirely thin plastic but hey! Will replace.

1 Oasis stainless steel water-bottle – 9/10. Great bottle, keeps things cold (and presumably warm), brilliant, I’ve dropped it so many times and it’s barely dented, but loses a point for being the single loudest bottle in the world. Every time I open it I feel like the squeaking is going to make all the mice scurry to me like the Pied Piper.

1 Mountain Warehouse XL travel towel – 7/10. Can’t complain! Does the job, just has the unfortunate habit of cementing anything it touches into its body forever. Do not ever let this thing touch grass.

1 Swiss Army pocket knife – 13/10. Thankyou so much. I use it all day every day and to date have not managed to mangle my fingers even though I’ve held it wrong and gone to cut something and have it snap closed back against my fingers three individual times <33

1 Sea to Summit washing line – 6/10. Confused. It works,,,, sometimes? Get what it was going for, and works well enough to not have too much to say. Would probably just try to DIY it next time, save some money.

1 set of cookware – ??/10. Includes insulated mug, pot and pan (that fit together), furno stove, microfibre towel (to clean) and a set of bamboo cutlery. Have not used once. Understand the value of having it, especially when it gets closer to winter and I stay outside, but taking up a lot of room. Unsure of whether to send back or keep. Another we’ll see about!

1 broken umbrella I’ve been carrying for a week – 0/10. Very sad I spent €12 on something that broke not three days later. Don’t know why I carried it so long either. Definitely ditch.

1 Mountain Warehouse lightweight hammock – ??/10. Seemed like a great idea, have not used it once, keeping it purely till I get closer to Spain and the nights get warmer again when I’m less high up. If, after a while, I just,,, still don’t use it, I’ll ditch or send it back.

1 First Aid Kit – 7/10. Haven’t needed it for anything serious yet, questioning if I need half the shit, may have over-prepared just slightly, also convinced that by jinx law if I get rid of anything the next day I will be grievously injured and need that specific thing and no longer have it. Will probably try to shave down, but not ditch.



> Extra (minus the thoughts because they aren’t needed)

Wallet (with cash)

Hodak Half-Frame camera w. 3 rolls of film

Phone

Fucking heavy powerbank

Charging cables

Guidebooks (3 -> 2)

1 Notebook (sans cover)

2 Pens

Occasional postcard

SIM Cards

Sleep mask

Headlamp

Passports

Toiletries


Numbers:

> Distance

Total kilometres : 363.7km

Total days : 18

~ 0-15km : 4 (22%)

~ 15-20km : 6 (33%)

~ 20-25km : 5 (27%)

~ 25-30km : 2 (12%)

~ 30-35km : 1 (6%)

Total time : 96hrs 35min

Average km/hr : 3.8

Average hr/day : 5.4

Average km/day : 20.2



> Money

Total spent : €490.25

(Total in Real Money (AUD) : $822.32)

Total days : 18

Average per day : €27.23 ($45.67)

By category :

~ Food : €252.63 ($423.75)

~ Accomodation : €205.12 ($344.06)

~ Laundry : €10.50 ($17.61)

~ Clothing : €10.00 ($16.77)

~ Miscellaneous : €12.00 ($20.13)



> Accomodation

Total nights : 19

~ Gîtes : 2 (11%)

~ Private Accomodation : 2 (11%)

~ Campsites : 4 (21%)

~ Benches : 6 (31%)

~ Cowboy Time : 3 (15%)

~ Camping Minus the Fun : 2 (11%)




Numbers but Silly:

Total Blisters : 12

Total Showers : 7 (Oops)

Hot meals : 2

Meals Constituted of Pesto and Bread and Tomatoes : 52

Am I Sick of Pesto and Bread and Tomatoes : No

Pilgrims seen : 25

~ Germans : 15

~ French : 7

~ ?? : 3

Attempts at ‘Bonjour!’ Gone Unanswered : 31

Glares Received When a ‘Bonjour!’ Was Not Given : 16

New Cheeses Tried : 6

New Cheeses Liked : 2

Nights Spent Next to Forty American Cyclists : 1

Times Cried : 2

Times Almost Cried : 8

Proportion of Those Almost’s Due to a Lack in Baguette Knowledge : 2

Proportion of Those Almost’s Due to a Lidl Cashier : 1

Friends Made : 0

Friends Made (Animals) : 20+

Bars of Kinder Chocolate Bought : Too Many

Wrong Turns : 21

Amount of Times I Got Significantly Lost : 3

Cold Water Spots Swum In : 6

Amount of Times ‘I’m Sure This Is the Last Hill’ Was Said : Immeasurable

Amount of Times I Saw a Water Source and Passed : 14

Amount of Times I Regretted It : 14

Attempts at French That Worked : 25-ish

Attempts at French That Didn’t : 15-ish

Attempts at French That Bombed So Hard the Guy Answered, In English, That He Didn’t Speak English : 1

Number of People I’ve Told Personally About This Blog : 6 (Soon to be 7)

Number of People My Dad Told About This Blog : Everyone Under the Sun, Apparently

Nights Spent Colder Than I’ve Been In the Past Eighteen Years : 9

Hours Spent Daydreaming : Infinite

Number of Dead Animals Found Outside my Tent : 7

Amount of Bears in France : 20

 

[David Harper]

@sunflowerfunk I have to compliment you on your writing skills, I am envious of your ability. I hope you continue to share the rest of your journey.
Buen Camino!

 

[Peterexpatkiwi]

I couldn't agree more with @David Harper - I'm seriously enjoying your post's, I've had two marathon sessions since finding your thread to get up to date. Please keep posting!
I do have one issue though. You see, I currently live in Germany and I just found out that the camino passes not far from me. I am already intending to start walking it on a weekend basis - because I've got a train pass, transport to and fro won't cost me any extra if I can get my staging right.
The problem is, you've now got me thinking.
If a self confessed overweight, unfit young Aussie can do it with zero training, perhaps I, as I moderately fit old Kiwi who's already done a couple of short Caminos can too.......

 

[sunflowerfunk]

I couldn't agree more with @David Harper - I'm seriously enjoying your post's, I've had two marathon sessions since finding your thread to get up to date. Please keep posting!
I do have one issue though. You see, I currently live in Germany and I just found out that the camino passes not far from me. I am already intending to start walking it on a weekend basis - because I've got a train pass, transport to and fro won't cost me any extra if I can get my staging right.
The problem is, you've now got me thinking.
If a self confessed overweight, unfit young Aussie can do it with zero training, perhaps I, as I moderately fit old Kiwi who's already done a couple of short Caminos can too.......

I wouldn't doubt that for a second :]
Weekends are fun already, bonus points if you can get the whole thing free!! And a few extra Caminos in your back pocket definitely wouldn't hurt, preperation wise; it sounds like you're already semi-decided (and more ready than I was) hahah!!
Either way, thank you for reading and Buen Camino in advance, for however you choose to walk <33

 

[davejsy]

Hello everyone !
I've been posting these to my blog, https://pocket-full-of-sea-glass.blog/, but I also wanted to put them here in case anyone was interested :]
I'm walking from Geneva to Finisterre, and this is my journey! I hope you enjoy - they are rather long <33

These are amazing and I'm really enjoying reading them, you have a wonderfully imaginative, funny, descriptive, and engaging writing style.

I'm still looking forward to reading about the last weeks worth, and maybe you mention it in there - but if not, I was just wondering what you write all of the blogs on? Is it just your phone? Do you make notes throughout the day or is it all from memory?

 

[sunflowerfunk]

These are amazing and I'm really enjoying reading them, you have a wonderfully imaginative, funny, descriptive, and engaging writing style.

I'm still looking forward to reading about the last weeks worth, and maybe you mention it in there - but if not, I was just wondering what you write all of the blogs on? Is it just your phone? Do you make notes throughout the day or is it all from memory?

Thankyou so much !! Yeah, it's mostly my phone - occasionally if it's dead I've got a notebook to scribble things down in too :]
Sometimes I jot things down if a lot is happening, but usually I can remember the day pretty well in the evenings - anything past that I'm terrible hahah

 

[sunflowerfunk]

Hellohello! This is a continuation of my journey from Geneva to Le Puy, and I also post them to my blog, https://pocket-full-of-sea-glass.blog/, where they'll probably be formatted better :]

I found reading other people's blogs helpful when planning my own Camino, so figured I'd add mine to the mix!

 

[sunflowerfunk]

Day 19 : Conditioner Confusion and Other Mundane Rest Day Things
-Le Puy-en-Velay-

I woke up this morning with a plan. I had a list, I would be checking it so many more times than twice, and I would start immediately.

Imagine.

First came the task of actually getting up and dressed and outside my tent, which brought me solidly to 10.30am. Then came grumbling, the realisation I need to charge my phone, general toiletries, showering, eating, becoming a person. Takes me a while, if I have time to waste.

At midday, I finally felt ready to leave, so I went back into my tent, grabbed my wallet, and promptly fell asleep. First day with actually zero walking; I was taking advantage of it – plus, it was warmer than my sleeping bag. When I woke up an hour and a bit later, I had a momentary flash of panic. What if everything was shut now because of weird French hours? Luckily, the place I needed to get to wasn’t. Unluckily, it was an hours walk. At least I’d had practice!

As I wandered (barefoot, of course) down the city streets and turned onto the quieter, winding roads of the suburbs, I went over my tasks for the day.

1. I needed a new sleeping bag. This was the Big One; even if I only accomplished this today it will have been worth it. No more freezing nights.

2. I needed new socks. Carrefour bargain socks weren’t cutting it, and the blisters were getting on my nerves.

3. I needed a new walking shirt. Mine was cotton, unsuitable, stretched beyond belief, and just generally grotty.

4. I needed some groceries and new toiletries. Self-explanatory – food and soap are generally valued pretty highly on backpacking trips.

5. I needed a credencial. This one was lowest on the list because I could just get it in the morning and save me the hassle,,,, or even wait till Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port if I needed. The French didn’t care!

There were a few other little things I was looking out for; hand sanitiser, earbuds, maybe a water purifier, maybe a new mat, but those weren’t as important as my main five. Plus, I figured there’d be a pretty high chance of finding them anyway. Oh and a postcard + post office. Crucial!

Busy day – if you can call it that. A busy seven hours might be a little more accurate; either way, I was glad to have something to do. I got the feeling booking two nights had been a little over-eager, considering I was already needling to keep walking. But for now, my walking would be confined to the Le Puy streets.

I was not exactly what you would call a city guy; they stressed me out. Too many options, and noises, and people and things – there’s a reason I went for some of the more isolated routes on this Camino. I remember being fourteen and convinced that all I ever wanted in life was to move to Melbourne and have some shitty artsy old brick house in St. Kilda. How the hell did I change so quickly?

Honestly, it was a little funny: calling Le Puy a city is probably a bit of a stretch, what with the 20,000 inhabitants. There were so many bigger – but it felt all-encompassing. I’d been feeling real country kid in the big city for m o n t h s now, basically since the second I flew out of Australia. My town has a thousand odd people and its own Coles; that’s a big goddamn town. I wasn’t even close to being rural, I’d been seaside basically my whole life, and that town genuinely felt big. America had really been a tailspin, I can tell you that. Never felt more out of place in my l i f e.

Anyway, incredibly distracted by everything in the world and rambling to yourself about population density, you’ll eventually make it to the Decathlon a way aways from town. It’s big, and blue, and French. And air-conditioned. Positively soaking in the cold fake-smelling air, I wander through the aisles – but not for long.

Boom! Sleeping bags :]

There’s a wall of them, and I realise that I’m not great at decisions. Oh well! Take bets on how long I stay here and I’ll reveal it later, it’ll be like gambling just,,, nah it’ll just be gambling. Anyway!!!! Can you tell I get distracted on slower days??

The wall and I have a battle of wits for awhile, as I go back and forth and back and forth. There’s one that looks perfect, sleek and orange and navy, filled with down insulation, compact as all hell, feels incredible, comfort rating of -5*. All for the chic price of €200 which is not in a million years going to happen. I want to spend more than I did the first time, but I also want to keep using it – I don’t know where I’ll be sleeping in Australia (Tassie doesn’t count) that’ll be even remotely close to -5* but I’ll give it a miss for now.

Eventually, I settle on the runner up. Synthetic, again, but this time thicker, warmer. Supposedly I’ll be snug as a bug till it hits 0*, at which point I will most resolutely Not be sleeping outside so it’ll do me fine. It’s a little bulkier, but I’m planning to shave some things from my pack anyway. Oh, and what put the nail in the financial coffin? It’s yellow. I’ve never seen anything so perfect <33

1. I needed a new sleeping bag

Onto item number two : a new shirt. Turns out, outdoor stores generally have a bunch of those, and though I was tempted by some ‘fishing is for the GODS’ camo tees, they were €30 and the same material as my last one. Unfortunately, I’ll have to pass.

Double unfortunately, they have a yellow shirt. For €35. Just over half of the sleeping bag. It’s merino and ,,, something, and, according to the French that is almost legible to me, it stops smells from sticking. I need it. But €35?? For o n e shirt?? In real money that’s like $60 – I was used to op-shop prices and occasionally a $20 splurge. It’d definitely be a leap!

Wandering around, desperately trying to find something else, I realised all the absorbent hiking-style shirts were gone; it was the yellow, or a blue one, or a few with horrific textures that made my skin crawl. I left it to stew while I tried to find other things on my checklist.

Hand sanitiser proved easy, as did socks, if you found the corner where they didn’t cost €20 a pair. Okay yeah, maybe I was a bit of a cheapie, but my god. I really loved walking, as it turns out, and it ends up being more expensive than anything else I would otherwise do!!! Aaa!!

2. I needed new socks.

Armed with that knowledge, I steeled myself and went to buy a yellow shirt :] I’ll keep this part short, both because I am aware of how boring this is, and also because I don’t know how to phrase anything and it was a Big Moment for me but! There ended up being quite limited sizing, and for the first time I fit into a standard range of clothing – not the plus size. So woopwoop to getting fitter <33 Shocker that you have to move for that to happen; who knew??

3. I needed a new walking shirt.

Frugality finally knocked down a peg, I battled the French self-checkout machines valiantly before being defeated with my very not-French debit card. After calling someone over and using brutal butchery of their native tongue to explain the problem, I was told the problem was purely that they needed a signature. Easy.

But today, God felt a bit slapstick, because the pen didn’t work. Not a problem, here’s another. Nope. What about this one? Take a guess, mate. After a Mr. Bean sketch level of people offering pens that didn’t work, someone finally produced one that did, and I signed my sign and walked out.

As I reorganised my things (having completely forgotten to get a bag), and begin the walk back to the Casino I passed earlier, I became very distracted by the whole signature thing. I’m going to divulge some information here and pray that no one attempts to steal my identity; my signature fucking rules.

I made it up when I was somewhere around twelve in the German Consulate in Brisbane, where I was getting my passport renewed. German bureaucracy, hellscape, fire and death, y’know how it is. Anyway, we’re getting to the end, and the lady asks for my signature. What? I’m twelve, why would I h a v e one of those? And so I look to my dad in a panic, and he comfortingly says, “just put the first thing that comes to mind”, trusting that he’s raised a child intelligent enough to know he does not mean literally the first thing that comes to mind.

Alas, that trust is most grievously misplaced. The first thing that pops into my head is ‘bookworm’, because I was a weird little child who spent all my time reading – to the point ‘no books to school’ had to become a rule because I’d forget to go to class – and that just felt funny. So down it went. Bookworm. As my legal signature. And the German passport lady was so confused, offered a chance at a better life; “that can be your test run!”. But nah, why would I change anything. Still oblivious to the fact that this was a very stupid idea, I confidently went, “no thanks :]”, while my dad laughed behind me.

So yeah! I had the chance to change it when I turned eighteen, but I didn’t, just made it a little

less legible so it wouldn’t be so easy to copy. That fucking rules. I love twelve year old me. And if anyone is brave enough to steal my identity and steal everything and look another functioning adult in the eyes and write down bookworm you can fucking have it.

On that note; we’re at the Casino now. I feel a bit bad that I’m giving you such a detailed rundown on a day where I’m going to two shops, but hey – future me will like reading the mundane, so you’ll just have to bear with me.

So, the Casino. It’s massive. It’s a huge shopping centre, and I really thought I’d like it but I just had my mundane shopping panic fit and bought some pesto and juice and Not a baguette because I’m an adult and like variation (they did not have any baguettes left). I also, and this gets it’s own paragraph, sorry, got conditioner.

Now, as far as tasks go, ‘walk into the conditioner aisle and buy some conditioner’ does not rank anywhere near the top of ‘hard’. In fact, I’d argue in the grand scheme of things, it’s probably right at the bottom. But still, I find a way! Now, the first aisle seems to be the shampoo/conditioner section – only there’s no conditioner. What? Okay, hang on, they must be in the next one. Bingo! These are all shampoo too???? Every single one says shampoo, and I’m s o confused. Shower gel I get, shampoo, yep – fuck is the conditioner? Already anticipating the answer, I translate conditioner into French; it’s basically the same word with a few more consonants. It also doesn’t exist in this Casino, apparently. After a few more rounds of delirious looking, I clock a teensy variation. Shampoo vs. Apres Shampoo. Conditioner in France is just ‘after shampoo’. That makes so much sense – I’m going to encourage gambling again, and say you should take a stab in dark at how long that took me to realise.

4. I needed some groceries and new toiletries

Anyway, small order of groceries and toiletries sorted, I was once more on my way; this time back to the campsite. After getting way lost again and emerging at a,,, new Lidl ? I bought some pain (leave me alone I like repetition), added it to my very lopsided shopping bag, and ended up back at the campsite.

Had a lovely 6.00pm lunch, pain with pesto and tomatoes because why would I ever try new things when such perfect things already exist?! Halfway through, I realised ‘oh shit the credencial’ and then ‘oh shit the postcards’ and then ‘oh shit a mat and water purifier and-‘ and then I made my brain be quiet <33 I could get the credencial in the morning, same with the cards, and the rest I’d just figure out later.

For now, it was time to repack. Fully. I hauled my pack out, sorted everything into keep and ditch. Managed to cut a whole plastic shopping bags worth of stuff, minus the sleeping bag. Somehow, this new sleeping bag was bulky enough that you could not tell at all, which wasn’t reassuring. Oh also? My interpretation of ‘open flame’ did not count gas stoves – it seems that in Spain, they are also not allowed. It was taking up so much room and I didn’t need it.

1.5-1 to me.

Figuring it was fairly pricey and good quality (and tiny), I’d keep the actual stove bit tucked away till I finished, and use it on some other trips instead, but the general little pot/pan/cup setup I’d ditch. But not yet – I’d wait till a gîte or albergue with a ‘leave behind’ bin, so another walker could grab it if they wanted. Handy, even if not fully legal. Until then, it could just be dead weight – perfect.

The sun sets as I perfect my packing list and test pack; everything fits, and it just works. Once the pots are gone, I might finally have space for silly little trinkets, once I finally start passing places that have them! And the sweet sweet smell of cheap shitty pizza floats over to me. Of course – it’s pizza van day. Stomach turning at the thought of spending more money, I beat the shit out of my frugality and take the €9.70 pizza.

Only, minor introvert hell ensues. My first pick is out – no worries, go for the second back-up choice I had, in case the first failed. Also gone; no fear, I have my third choice and how are they out of everything it’s only been open thirty minutes ?? Eventually the guy just kinda gestures to one of them and I go ‘oui’ to get me the hell out of this scenario, not reading what it says at all.

Twenty minutes later, my pizza is done. It’s mushroom, pesto, olives and chicken. I can confidently say it was the worst pizza I’ve ever eaten. I have a great time reading long essay-adjacent eulogies of people who’ve died on the Camino, then go on a bit of a eulogy spiral and learn about the history, and good thing I’m equipped because the pizza hits me about an hour later and then I’m doubled over in the camp toilets regretting every decision that bought me to this point – but hey, at least if I die, I’ll have a few words ready.

The All-Blacks play rugby with the French, and the Americans watch. I creepily watch the Americans through the window because their confusion is so funny. I’m listening to a Kiwi couple argue about the chapel on the hill (“All I’m saying, right, is who the fuck looks at a mountain and goes ‘i’m gonna bring up all them rocks’” / “Maybe it was to sort of like,, signify the religious power they held-” / “Yeah or maybe a bunch of shit-heads just wanted to fuck up a few poor people’s day by making them carry rocks up a mountain”), and the stars are out again. Also? I don’t like the Le Puy campsite (sorry). It’s too loud and crowded; I’ve been spoilt by all these nights in rural France.

Tomorrow, I enter less-rural France. The Via Podiensis, more than double my last leg, which will bring me right to Spain’s doorstep. In just about a month (hopefully), I’ll have finished my journey across France. I was excited :] I was also fucking tired, which is impressive considering I did barely anything, but I won’t nitpick. And so, we meet again – and tomorrow I’ll greet you better, but tonight I need to sleep. All that nothing is exhausting, don’t you know <33

---

Day 19 – September 8th

Le Puy-en-Velay

10.2km (doesn’t count)

~ 363.7km total

€148.97 (unfortunately does count)

~ €632.23 total

 

[sunflowerfunk]

Day 20 : 'La Poste Isn't That Bad Actually' and Assorted Sentiments
-Le Puy-en-Velay-

This morning started the way any good morning should; sleeping through Mass. I went to bed ready to be blessed and holy, and woke up forty minutes after the blessing and holiness started. Oops. Turns out it’s way harder to wake up at 7.00am when you only fell asleep around 3.00am; who knew? I’d let it slide this time though, on account of the fact that it was for the best reason: I had been overheating. At 13*. Sleeping bag already paying it’s way.

Even so, first stop was the cathedral – after taking a million years to get ready, naturally. All the accounts I’d read talked about slowly making longer and longer days as they got fitter, but mine seemed to be getting shorter. I just wanted to sleep, but the sleep made me feel gross. Eternal dilemma; your problems really do follow you when you travel. But at least I’m constantly exhausted in France, I guess !!

The cathedral is cool and massive an up-itself; everything an all-powerful religion based on Some Guy should be <33 It also had (inside the giant chapel with ornate, ancient designs and this place of oh-so-reverential-worship) a gift shop full of statues of baby Jesus sleeping in a boot (?), postcards of donkeys burning in eternal flame (??), and ‘Blood of Jesus’ scented incense (???). Because if there’s one thing Catholics love more than God, it’s a bit of commercialisation.

So many stamps to collect,,
Inside the gift shop, they also sell credentials. So I figure I might be a little crazy here, and give being a registered pilgrim a go. Only took me 350 kilometres. A quick scribble on a yellow notepad that asks for my name, address, and email and €5 forked over, and I get my first stamp. 79 to go until my next credential!

I’ve been thinking more about the point of the credentials, given that none of the French gîtes seem to give a toss if you have one, and have come to the conclusion that I don’t really care much about them. Or the Compostela, for that matter. This general thing – even though I still don’t know the specifics of why I’m doing it – is way more about the actual physical achievement it’ll have been for unfit me to walk two thousand odd kilometres than it is about a certificate.

And don’t get me wrong – the Compostela is sick. Latin names? Cool old artwork? Fuck yeah dude. But it’s also religious (shocker that one real blow to the system that the religious pilgrimage route is religious) and ehhhh the distance certificate would be more my speed but again, I’d be missing 350km. Anyway! We’ll see how that changes but I think for now the ‘reward’ is still a swim at Finisterra :]

A rare Cool Cross <33
But I’ve gotten off track – we’re at the cathedral. Or at least, outside of it now. Go look around or something, I’m writing a lame little card and you’re being nosy ❤ There’s loads for you to look at while I scribble; the cool old cross directly across from the bench I’m on, or the view over Le Puy from the edge of the courtyard. Actually, how about this: you wander down and take a right on the stairs, follow them back out into the street and stay on it until you reach the marketplace – I’ll meet you there!

The streets here are twisted cobble; to get to the market you stay straight, only turning once to get down another set of stairs. But you won’t have to worry too much about direction; you’re still half following the red/white stripes of the GR65, and even if you weren’t, you know as you’re approaching it.

Incredibly loud orchestra music and a man laying into it on a mic like it’s karaoke night, opera tunes edition. Men dressed as elves running shops that sell medieval clothing, incredible jewellery stores too full for you to fit into with your pack (fuck!), banners hanging from rafters. The smell of crepes and cheese and olives drift through the air as you wander into the hub of it all, where forty odd market stalls sit under their colourful fabric tents. Boxes of fresh fruit, containers overflowing with berries and new, strange vegetables. A man dips a large wooden spoon into a vat, and pulls out scoops of honey, thick and dripping into jars. Another pours fruit elixirs into flasks like a magician. There’s barely room to walk, but the locals dip and turn like dancers, well rehearsed in their routine.

Walking sticks in the market square – I should’ve bought the little donkey :[
You didn’t even see me coming! We’re both here now, and I’d love to stay but it’s already 11.00am – we really do have to get a move on. Standing in the bustle with big rucksacks isn’t giving us the best attention. It’s time for the big scary task of the day; braving La Poste.

I think of everything I’d heard of before arriving, La Poste was the most universally hated. Self-checkout machines entirely in French, new ways to write addresses, struggle getting mail posted internationally. Nightmare. But, as it turns out, it’s,,, not too bad? I mean granted, they saw my pack and look of abject terror and immediately took me aside to figure out what I needed, so that helped, but y’know ❤

I had built up a (very) small set of postcards, and wanted to send them to the U.S. No problem. Stamps were easy, €3.30 international flat rate – took them like two seconds (they are efficient as hell). Here’s where it takes a turn I wasn’t expecting; they don’t have international envelopes. I’d have to get them somewhere else. Cool, no worries – could I use a plain envelope instead?

“Bye!”

Okay! A quick google search offered no real answer, nor did my attempts at figuring out if you needed the French address format for sending out of France. I was just broadly confused, and getting into a mundane panic about not much at all. The tabacs around me didn’t sell envelopes (though one sold CBD and shirts of Macron ripping a bong – tempting is too weak a word), and after another thirty minutes I gave up. Next town it was. Gave me longer to collect cool postcards at least :]

Helpfully, the tabacs were right next to the waymarkers – I could start walking. Finally; as I made my way up, the church bells began to toll – it was exactly midday. Today is exciting; you leave the town quickly. Up a hill, turn a corner, up the rest of the hill, turn the other way, right to the top. One last view of the statue of the guy holding up baby Jesus and Le Puy is gone, fallen into the valley below.

Quite abruptly, the scenery changes again. It’s almost,, arid? The dryness of the first few weeks made sense; it was hot, and there was a drought. Here, the same applied, but the lava rock formations that tumbled into gorges seemed to tear the climate apart, the ridge-line separating green trees and small streams from the jagged stones and dead branches.

Splits in the valley :]
It’s almost unsettling, but it makes for interesting walking. Each step relied on the trust that the stone you’d pick would not pitch sideways without warning – I had about a 76% rate, I’d say. It still feels fairly isolated, but maybe it’s just the dryness.

Scratch that : it’s definitely the dryness. Being a much older route, the Via Podiensis is far more popular, which brings me to another new thing : other fucking pilgrims exist? I’ve seen eight already today, after an hour. That’s insane. More insane? There’s infrastructure. for them.

I cannot properly explain the feeling of going from ‘you should probably ration your water in case there’s nothing for the next 15km’ to ‘(almost) every single town has coldpotable water’. Or ‘there’s a gîte in every direction, at all times, even in the tiny scatterings of houses’. Or ‘every other town has a food stall catering specifically to pilgrims with delicious smelling snacks for a few euros’. What the fuck?

And y’know what trumps them all? Toilets. I have so many pictures of public bathrooms on my phone because I can’t believe how many of them there are. Also pilgrim rest stops? Water, toilets, information, snacks? Am I in heaven?


-La Roche –

After six and a bit kilometres, I find myself in La Roche. [AN : I think. To be honest, dear reader, I’ve completely forgotten where I was, but I know it was between Le Puy and Monbonnet and 6km feels semi-right.] Cool, and old, and French and chockers full of walkers. Monumentally confused, I walk through the throng, out past the coolest water fountain I’ve ever seen (spin a massive wheel and a sad lion spits into your bottle), and into the shade on the outskirts of the town.

I really need to check if the berries are edible so I can eat them huh,,
It’s pesto time, babey. As I pull out my tomatoes, I’m passed by three pilgrims I saw in the shade earlier.

“Bonjour!” circles thrice.

Then, as I pull out my bread, I’m passed by thirty. Not fucking with you, thirty. It’s my first tour group experience. Singlehandedly, they’re more than I’ve seen the entire last three weeks.

An unspeakable amount of ‘Bonjour’s follow.

A tad shaken, and already dreading the next few weeks (cynic in full control), I ate my lunch. Really hoping it’d thin out as I continued, I read a little, wrote a little. I was trying not to use too much data, for fear of upsetting the SIM card gods again, so the general blogging-to-prove-I’m-alive thing would have to take a hit.

I’m also passed by a French man in the Worlds Tiniest Shorts and absolutely nothing else, but that has nothing to do with anything; I just wanted you to know.

Then, refreshed and full, I carried on. I soon passed the second half of the group, then the first, then a few who were crowded around a woman shaking on the floor. Uh oh ! She had heat exhaustion, and they were calling a taxi to take her back to the accomodation. Attempts at offering water and electrolytes were kindly waved off, and on I went.

It was so pretty, this dry heat. It felt so familiar, but the geographical cracks were slivers here; too many things were off. No matter – the twisting branches were fun enough on their own. After a long, long stretch of walking through tall wheat and across empty roads, you get to this really cool little alleyway made entirely of thistles. You, naturally, are in a short sleeve tshirt. You’re going to have a great time.

New plants !! Exciting stuff <33
But the pathway leads to Montbonnet, so you’ll brave the scratches and spiderwebs, and the one thing that stings you and leaves a big old purple stripe on the inside of your arm, somehow.


-Monbonnet-

If I am once again entirely honest : I don’t remember much. This is a good study of why I started these in the first place – I left it a little too long, waited till the morning. And the things that were so vivid not eight hours ago have disappeared into fog. I don’t remember Montbonnet. I remember what came after, and I remember a man filling a bottle, and I remember deliberating over a campsite, but the rest is gone.

:[

I’m skipping to 4km later, as I wander over the top of a hill overlooking what I incorrectly assume is Saint-Privat-d’Allier. It is not.


-La Chier-

La Chier is small, and old, and French. Not sure if anyone else is recognising the common theme here, but I reiterate. Small, and old, and French. And it still has a fancy rest stop. What the fuck?

I take full advantage of that rest stop – it’s nearing 6.00pm, and I’m starving. I’ve also been out of water since Monbonnet, that much I do remember. Cashews and an apple, some of the cold potable water to wash it down. I feel luxurious – and speaking of luxurious, I’m about to book somewhere to stay for the third night in a row.

It had been more than a week since my spine had last touched a bed, and I was beginning to feel it. Unfortunately, I was most definitely too late to reserve anything online, which meant my only option was showing up or calling. I much preferred just rocking up, but it was late enough that people would start to be busy with dinner and I didn’t want to interrupt – which meant it was time to mangle some French.

I didn’t want to stop at Saint-Privat-d’Allier – I still had a few kilometres left in me yet, and hours till dark. So I turned the page in my guidebook and found a place close to five kilometres from the town. Perfect! Two hours odd walk away. Dreading it with every bone in my body, I dialled the number.

As usual, absolutely nailed the first sentence, then he responded on French and I was f u c k e d. Scrambling, I tried to reiterate that I wanted one bed, no dinner. Eventually he gave up and handed the phone to someone American – who I later learnt was another pilgrim who also couldn’t speak French – to try and get the translation across. It almost worked, but he was expecting me thirty minutes early. Rightio.

My pace was around 3.7km per hour – pushing it to 4.5km shouldn’t be t ha t hard, right? And then I flipped the page back to my current stage. Oh fuck. I’d forgotten about the bit to Saint-Privat-d’Allier. I didn’t have four odd kilometres, I had almost e ig h t. And an hour and a half to make it. Shiiit.

So, I booked it. Speedwalking of the kind you can only find in early Kath & Kim episodes – minus the brightly coloured sportswear – all the way down the hill. At one point, very intelligently, I actually began running. I don’t understand what possessed me to not just ring again and attempt a ‘hey I’ll be a bit late!’, considering there wasn’t even anything he needed to do to prepare for me, but I was tired and not thinking (clearly). So, running downhill on sketchy rocks and jarring both of knees repeatedly, I made it to the first view of town.


-Saint-Privat-d’Allier-

I could have s l e p t here,,,,
Saint-Privat-d’Allier is fucking gorgeous, set on the side of a mountain directly at sunset, and full of so many gîtes you would not b el i e v e. Every corner rounded provided another three, and almost none of them had signs up that said ‘complet’. Why didn’t I stop, you ask? Why didn’t I ring and say ‘oops sorry my bad I won’t make it’? No clue. Not one. I’d made a rare decision and I had to stick with it, which meant a speedwalk through the town, past shops (I was so hungry and almost out of everything – shops tomorrow it was!) and empty gîtes, up the hill, down a road, up the hill again, all the while with this horrific anxious knot in your stomach. Jesus Christ.

I passed settlement of fake hope after settlement of fake hope. The time was ticking, and my legs were on fire, and I was so going to hate past me the second I stopped walking because I could already feel the ache in my bones. But I could hate me later; right now all that mattered was getting there and finally, after so long I reach it, and surely, after twenty days of the exact same way of ending paragraphs and beginning new ones, you hopefully don’t still believe me because it’s not! Fucking! Pratclaux!


-Rochegude-

Rochegude is small and lovely and Also has many open gîtes – but I go past each and every single one. The sun is officially setting now, all golden and red, so naturally, the light is waning. Where do the arrows lead, you ask? Directly downhill, because why the hell not.

Breaks in the pine !
This, lovely lovely reader, is the exact point at which I realise my mistake. Because there’s still a kilometre and a half to Pratclaux, and my little brain has just finished it’s panic-fuelled adrenaline spike and realised I can’t make it in time. But that does not mean I won’t try.

When walking slowly kills you, I can only recommend the pinball strategy. Bracing myself against a tree trunk, I simply angle my body towards the next one that looks strong enough to hold me, make sure I’m on a downward slant and run. Slam into that next tree, repeat. Your arms ache but your legs? Also ache this is such a terrible idea please don’t do this.

Also? I ran out of water like thirty minutes ago, so now I’m tired, thirsty, running down a hill full of rocks and roots and terribly eroded sandy dirt, and it’s almost dark, and just know that any time I describe anything like this, it’s not to say the trails are bad, more that I’m a fucking idiot and the poster child of not listening to my body. Anyway!


-Pratclaux-

Eventually, legs weak, arms heavy, (mum’s spaghetti) I make it to the welcome sign. I stagger down the path a little, sorely regretting not just sleeping on one of the several perfect benches I’ve passed in the last hour and a half. A sign tells me the gîte is to the right – it’s called Ribeyre and I can only read it as ribeye. I stumble into this guy’s backyard, make some sort of phone-call-esque-surfer-dude-wave motion, cobble a terribly formatted sentence together in my brain, sputter out ‘je suis celui sans français’ (‘I am the one without French’), and hope he gets it.

Finally !!
He does. He leads me to another small building, where two women are eating. Here I meet my phonecall saviour, as she laughs and says, “Max is here!”.

I try to return the enthusiasm, but if my knees do not feel hot water in the next two seconds I will implode (can you tell I was feeling dramatic?). I pay him €25 (€20 for the night, €5 for breakfast), take my shoes off and haul my massive pack upstairs, bonking against the stairway as I do.

I get a room to myself tonight – maybe it was worth it! I messily throw my things everywhere in order to get to my towel and have the most satisfying shower of my life. Lukewarm water with zero pressure at all has never felt so good <33

And then I write, as my companions eat below me. I can hear their conversation through the wooden floors, and I listen to them gossip about people I’ve never met as I try to figure out some little things in my brain. Eat, too. Pesto, tomatoes, the last of my bread. I’m running dangerously low, and I’ll need to grab more stuff tomorrow.

It’s technically the next morning, but let’s pretend I met you here last night. I wasn’t expecting 27km when I started, that’s for sure! But for a first day back, I’m happy. Yeah my legs snap when I move them, but right now I’m just going to call that the sound of victory <33

---

Day 20 – September 9th

Le Puy-en-Velay to Pratclaux

27.0km

~ 27.0km total

€31

~ €31 total

(390.7km combined)

(€663.23 combined)

 

[sunflowerfunk]

Day 21 : Changes in Plans
-Pratclaux–

Last night was, oddly, pretty rough. The knees didn’t help, what with my general painful tossing and turning, but more than that it was fucking hot. It was 13* outside, all the windows were open, there was no heating and it was boiling.

I spent most of the night convinced I had a fever, and when dawn finally came and I splashed cold water on my face, ready to brave breakfast, I re-met the two women who immediately asked me if it was also really hot in my room last night. No fever, thankfully.

The two were friends from Canada, one of which had done the stretch from Le Puy-en-Velay to Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port before, and wanted to redo it together. They were sweet, and more importantly; spoke English. I had not particularly missed conversation itself – it came lumbering a little awkwardly back to me, but understanding what was being said to me was a nice change.

We had a breakfast that was definitely not worth the €5, although the bread was – naturally – delicious, and swapped some basic tidbits (I even got some gossip about our host). Eventually, they left to get ready, and I,, didn’t. I was sleepy, and anticipating a shorter day – I could savour my apple juice. I left about half an hour after they did, when I finally had my shit together (took half a baguette for the road while I was at it).

Ancient basalt rock formations :]
Must have been about 8.30am when I turned back, a little down the road, realising I’d almost forgotten to get my stamp. Still not used to the paperwork, I guess! From there, it was a gentle rolling meander down the slopes to Monistrol-d’Allier, my first stop.


-Monistrol-d’Allier-

Split in two by the Allier river – from which it gets its name – Monistrol-d’Allier is the closest ‘hub’ to Pratclaux, only about two kilometres away. It’s got gîtes on gîtes on gîtes, as well as plenty of pilgrim food options, cafes and bars. Plus an épicerie! Weirdly, though, everything but the pilgrim snack bars seems to be closed even though it’s past nine and – no no no no! I’ve committed a cardinal pilgrim sin – I haven’t checked the day. It’s Sunday. Shit.

Not exactly comforted by my exceptionally empty food bag and the knowledge that I don’t have another shopping opportunity until Sauges, four hours down the trail, I start to move a little quicker. Shops close even earlier on Sundays, and without it I’ll be hungry till Tuesday. Not exactly ideal.

The climb out of town is steep – even the ultralight runners are having a little difficulty. I always feel a bit bad walking past them, the seasonal pest they have to deal with every warm month. Sorry!

I have about twenty photos of this river I think
But, at the halfway point, you’re rewarded with the Chapel of Saint-Madeline. Locked, of course, not that you’ll know till you climb the extra set of stairs. Oh well! It’s carved directly into the rock outcrop of the mountain, and looks completely bizzare, covered in small blue spikes. Except – are those baby blankets?

They are baby blankets. They’re also rubbish, and lace, and yarn, and holy shit it’s one big yarn-bomb. It turns out it’s an art display by signifying the life and death of coral, and it’s correlation with the pilgrimage. It’s,,, beautiful? My pictures are terrible – full of sun-glare and shadow, so you’ll just have to picture it.

Huge chunks of stone, long since broken off from the mountain that’s been standing for the better part of 400 million years. Shattered on the ground below, splitting off in chunks, each now covered in a thin woven layer of lace and colour; white slowly swallowing all. I’ll leave Annouck Lepla’s (or Lepla Annouck’s, I never know with the French) blurb here, because I found it quite a cool visual :]

“A projection for the departing pilgrim, a promise to go on to complete their quest, perhaps to the sea itself. […] Nestled in the cavities, a coral community [forges] links with the former inhabitants of the place, […] vestige of one of the oldest living [species], this unusual presence invokes long-term works, [time shaping the] geological landscape, […] the precise and delicate gestures of lacemakers, the slowness of walking that breathes new life into the mind.”

God coral fucking rules. I was a little concerned that with so much time to think, I might somehow poke holes in what I wanted to study, but there’s not a chance. Coral Ecology, here I come :] Very distracted – almost enough to not notice going up the next set of stairs – I rambled to myself about conservation and zooxanthellae and the ocean and man I missed the ocean; I felt like I was going crazy without the salt.

The next 12km were,, a lot. There were several more tour groups, and a lot of solo/paired pilgrims on top – my total was already pushing ninety. On day two. To be honest I’m,, not really enjoying this section as much? It’s stunning, don’t get me wrong; the Podiensis is deliberately inconvenient, forever taking you the long way round, but it’s made entirely to showcase France’s best natural beauty. It passes by nine UNESCO world heritage sites, countless towns on the ‘most beautiful’ list, etc. etc. But the pure volume of people was something I was struggling with. I liked being able to see people only ever really at night, leaving the day for rambles and isolation. It all felt so loud!

Then again, I guess this is that whole pushing your comforts thing. I was not, as it turns out, the only person in the world. Lame! I’d have to learn to share – y’know, like a toddler does.

Hmm,, feel like there’s a joke in here somewhere,,
Passing rest stop after rest stop, I really considered a pause. But most of them were full of French groups, and I was ready to share, but I was not quite ready to mingle with forty people at once. I had a limited set of skills, and intense socialising was not one of them; I’d save that for a rainy day.

I was, as I walked, capital t Thinking. Not to jump the gun here, because that would be so unlike me, but I was very worried about the second portion of my Camino. I knew it was only day two of the route, and so I couldn’t judge it yet (allegedly), but the sheer amount of people was already proving to be a lot. It would be nothing compared to the Frances. And as un-pilgrim-like of me it was to long for the isolation, I was. So many people talk about the friends they make on the Way, and the connection they feel, and the communal dinners, and that’s all perfectly good! But those aren’t any of the reasons I align my Camino with – mine was rather selfish.

I wanted to be alone, to stew in my lame little brain and try to figure myself out. I didn’t mind the occasional chat, or a night together in a gîte, but I loved the feeling of being completely alone. It had its moments, like anything else, but nothing beats me under the stars, in a field in the middle of nowhere, feeling like the only person in the world.

So, the more I heard about the Frances, the less it appealed to me. There were pros, of course; more people spoke English, it was (relatively) easier than some of the other routes, not every single person would be French or German. But I just could not get used to the vague stress that now accompanied me whenever I needed to stay the night somewhere, and the thought of that tenfold was more than a little daunting.

So, I came up with a plan B. I wouldn’t make the decision fully yet, just sort of,, test it out a little. Now, there’s fucking tons of Camino routes, interlocking all across Europe. Other than the Frances, none that I could find start in Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port. But one that looked particularly appealing started about 75km north of it, in Irun.

The Del Norte, or ‘North Way’, is an 820km walk following the Spanish coastline, and is broadly considered one of the most beautiful routes – with the bonus that it connects directly with the Primitivo. I’d looked at it really strongly while planning, but had decided to go for the longest consecutive one I could manage; hence the Frances. But once I got the idea in my mind, I couldn’t get it out. Over and over and over I rehashed the debate, and the more I thought about it the more excited I was. Oops. Jumped the gun.

Eventually, my grumbling feet unionised and demanded a break. Fair play, I could use a few cashews while we’re at it. Y’know what, I’ve been walking for a while and I must be close, why don’t I check opening hours in Sauges and – holy shit it closes in an hour. I’m 4.9km away. I walk 3.7km an hour. Get up.

I did not learn my lesson yesterday. I ran. Again. Past town and town and confused tour group and perplexed cat and all the other new recurring cast. At some point, my knees gave up entirely – no more running. Not even jogging. All pressure is pain. You fucking idiot! Even so, I hurry on. Don my metaphorical pink/purple/blue sportswear and get my Kath on. I have a goal, I have a time. I’m setting off speed cameras (hobbling).

And then finally on the horizon, Sauges appears. According to Google Maps, I’ll arrive at 12.29pm. Shop closes at 12.30pm. I need to make up time. Sorry knees! Back to a jog, faster speedwalk, trying to clear the rubble before I make it back to smooth pavement. I’m stressed, and some part of me clocks that the French usually close early anyway. Shut up!

Sculptures and the first view of Saugues

-Saugues-

To save you some time, I won’t recount the pure adrenaline (panic) I felt half-speedwalking to the contact, or the heartbreak I felt having to pass by pretty postcards and not buy them. What I will tell you though, is that I walked through the doors at 12.25pm and they bolted them shut after me. Holy shit.

Pesto, tomatoes, cheese, burger buns (no pain left </3) juice, haribo (I needed a jumpstart occasionally okay), a few other bits and bobs. Then, there. Sorbet. Fucking y u m yes please! Almost forgot apples, but remembered just in time. A perfect little basket, and perfect timing – as I checked out they clocked out. 12.30pm on the dot. Every French-based joke in hit movie Muppets Most Wanted got infinitely funnier by the day.

Now my only goal was shade. I was so far from the arrows, but I couldn’t care less. Shade and food, please. Up the road and to the left is a little green circle of grass, and it’s as close to Heaven as I’ve ever felt. Cool breeze immediately required a jumper and beanie, but it was worth it. A sandwich for the ages, one to rival the cucumber one from the night in Bourg-Argental. I felt amazing. So amazing, in fact, that I promptly fell asleep for two hours.

Have a good,, lunch (??) and go back to bed works too, I suppose!

When I woke up, my legs felt ready to fall off, and I palmed through the guidebook to check my options. There were plenty, but it was a typical end-of-stage destination; a Lot of pilgrims were here already. I was craving quiet and I doubted many would be carrying on; if they did, they’d be ahead of me – I’d go for a meadow tonight.

As I was leaving, I had a bit of a Moment. I chucked the sorbet. Without eating any. After the sandwich, I’d clocked it was a binge purchase, and even though I spent money on it, I didn’t risk it. Pretty happy with that – I’ve managed to avoid an episode the entire last three weeks :] And sure, maybe I eat a little too many Kinder chocolate bars here or there, but baby steps <33

Last sentence feels vaguely threatening,,,
As I set off, it was boiling. I was right – I didn’t see another pilgrim all afternoon; best one in a while. My earlier, overwhelmed, cynical me had started to walk to escape everyone, but here, alone again, I could walk just to walk. Everything felt so bright and beautiful again – I was happy. Mumford and Sons was, for some reason, my brains choice for the evening, and I watched the sunlight filter through the trees as I reminisced.


-La Clauze-

A short seven-and-a-half-kilometre-wander later, La Clauze presented itself in a small dip in the landscape. It was cute, and it had a little table selling shells for a few euros each, guarded by a silly wooden guard and absolutely covered in scrawled messages from people that spanned the world.

She shells seashells by the side of the road isn’t as fun of a tongue-twister I guess !!
I filled up water here too, considered stopping. But I still had an hour of sun left, and that was too long to wait somewhere. Subtlety, and etcetera. So on I went, through cool little farming villages and past a truly incredible amount of cheese shops (closed). Passed many a concrete cross, confused a lot of cows. It was casual, not-much-to-report walking. I was in my head, mostly, just sort of rearranging mental furniture.


-Le Villeret d’Apchier-

Regarded as the ‘best’ off-stage spot to stop for today, Le Villeret d’Apchier was the plan from La Clauze. It was just under an hours walk away, which meant I had enough time to scout a bench and come back as the sun set. According to my little book, it had a fully set up rest stop. The perfect spot to sleep till the early-bird pilgrims were up.

Not all cat photos are created equal. Also – why is there dry macaroni???
Unfortunately for me, the rest stop was directly next to a gîte/restaurant that was very clearly quite active, with zero indication of that slowing down at all. So on it was. Chazeaux was just three more kilometres, and surely there’d be a bench there,,, right??

On I went, over a tiny stream where little fish flitted from my shadow, and where a small sign advised me, as a potential fisher, not to swing my fishing rod too hard or I might connect to the overarching power lines and die a gruesome death. Cheerily, I walked on.


-???-

It was getting late now, sun dipping into the horizon, and the path to Chazeaux was in a valley, which meant it got dark fast. In the waning golden light, I passed two meadows. One looked perfect, but had a trampled fence – I wasn’t too keen on actually going onto private land, the zappy fence night was because there was only onefence. Also, it was right by the forest. No thanks, I’d learnt my lesson there.

The second was open – a big grassy meadow, soft green grass. It was surrounded with the classic low stone walls, but it had a large opening. There were houses sort of nearby, but not too close. But I passed, even though the presumed owner gestured to it and smiled and nodded as I walked by, purely because I’d tried one too many times to do the blokey nod and tongue click thing, practicing as I walked, and hadn’t seen him at first, and now I was convinced he thought I was insane.

But it’s just my luck, because past a few more closed off ones, I find the Perfect Field. It’s big, and sprawling, and it’s got the same open, low, stone fence. There’s a tree for cover, and only one house in eyesight. Two towns, one to my right and one to my left, but on opposite sides of the valley. A road separates me from them, where funny French cars dawdle across, winding their way up to the cemeteries. It’s really pretty, and I’ve found it just in time, because as I set my pack down, the sun officially bids me goodnight.

The light is dim and blue at the edge of the horizon, and I hurriedly assemble a sandwich before the darkness hits. I roll out my sleeping bag, pop a killer blister in the dark, manage to put socks on without pain for the first time in a week, and enjoy it as I watch the stars emerge (post hand sani, obviously). It’s a good night :] I’ve walked 28.5km in my fastest time yet, and I don’t feel thatwrecked. I mean, my knees are shot and I think I’ve killed them forever, but other than that, I’m holding up well <33

Anyway, it’s been nice chatting with you – we should do it more often. I’ve really got to sleep now; I got distracted over potential calls and Christmas again, and I’m about to get sucked into a wormhole of Camino research (not that I know it). I hope you manage to wander a little today :]

---

Day 21 – September 10th

Pratclaux to ???

28.5km

~ 55.5km total

€25.43

~ €56.43 total

(419.2km combined)

(€688.66 combined)

 

[sunflowerfunk]

Day 22 : (Fake) Slushie Induced Nostalgia
-???-

I had more than a few odd dreams last night, and I woke up thinking of swallowed worlds and dying stars, and to the sound of the first pilgrim of the morning crunching his way along the gravel path. Up and at ’em, I guess :]

It was 7.30am, and 12*. I don’t think I would ever get used to the temperature, but at least the sleeping bag helped. Crazy – turns out they keep you warm ??? Who knew ??? I got up, got changed very quickly into my lovely sweaty shirt – which for the record, was dry (I know, gasp) – and got ready for the day. My first chore was to get water; I’d drank almost all of it last night.

On second thought, maybe starting the whole drinking-water-every-time-I-get-anxious-so-I-have-something-to-do-with-my-hands-and-stay-hydrated thing wasn’t great to start right before a long distance walk, because now I’ve Pavlov’d myself – not only do I need a stupid amount of water all the time, but now when I drink my brain has a little ‘!!!’ panic sensor that starts beeping.

You live and you learn <33 Anyway, Chazeaux is just around the corner from where I slept, and doesn’t have anything, just picnic tables and an odd brick building [AN : it’s a toilet and water. I don’t realise until I write this tonight. Do not make my mistake]. I don’t stop – right now I just need to make it to a toilet (still getting aftershocks of that fucking pizza) and get some water. Up, past the gîte where a few other pilgrims begin to trickle out. It’s 8.30am now, and it’s really getting going. I pass eight leaving Chazeaux. Another nine gone by the time we arrive at the doorsteps of the pine forest. It’s only two odd kilometres before we enter ‘Le Sauvage’ or ‘The Wild’, which is a pretty crazy thing to put on a signpost. Then again, y’know, “what even is ‘wild’? What is nature? Discuss,,..,.”


-Le Sauvage-

As it turns out, Le Sauvage is,, not that wild. It’s sort of just a big farm/restaurant in the middle of some (gorgeous) golden wheat fields, surrounded by pretty cows :] I had a lovely old time wandering through, dipping back into the pines as streams ran in and out and around me.

I was still spending most of my time daydreaming and stumbling on rocks; this morning was no different. The pines had shifted from their previous towering counterparts, and were now smaller, slanted. Covered in lichen. But the needles were the same, and the pinecones. ‘C is for conifers, more than five hundred kinds.,.,.’ I was humming along, pleased to have something non-Northern-Rivers stuck in my head.

Living the dream !
I was still definitely needing water though, the walk had just solidified it. I was nibbling on gummy bears and pretending that counted (told you they’d come in handy). Finally, finally, finally, after a lot of lame smiley rambling to myself and a little bit of letter-drafting, I reached the next point on my map.

It also had no water.

To be honest, not entirely sure why Domaine du Sauvage is even a waymarker – it’s sort of just an empty hut in the woods? But figuring I was maybe just missing the point, I carried on. Allegedly, my guidebook says, there were toilets and water at the Chapelle of Saint Roch, which I was an uncertain amount of distance from. Helpful.

Anyway, the gravel path which had so kindly led me through woodland and beautiful fields now dumped me unceremoniously at the side of the D987. Walking along the side of highways is a little less fun than ancient forests, but the adrenaline of motorhomes whizzing really helps things. Although, to be fair to them, mostpeople driving past made an effort to go around you, some to the point of switching lanes on blind corners, which is arguably more stressful than them just hitting you.


-Col de l’Hospitalet-

Finally a sign appears for – nothing? It’s a little stone alter and a picnic table; you aren’t there yet. Groaning and no doubt grumbling, you’ll force your legs to walk just a little longer, get just a little farther. Toilets and water, toilets and water, do not shit on the side of the road, toilets and water. Camino mantras couldn’t be less glamorous if they tried.

And then you arrive at Roch’s Chapel, and it’s pretty hard not to smile. I mean, the church is fine, if you’re into that sort of thing, but outside of it, on the small slope, is a bunch of split logs fashioned into seats. It’s got the real Bexhill-open-air-cathedral vibe going on, from the type of wood to the blue-tinged paint. I can practically taste the chicken salt. Mmmm nostalgia.

I grab a stamp, not realising you’re meant to let them give it to you, take a peek inside (dark and stuffy and Catholic), and ditch everything in favour of the toilets. I don’t manage to find potable water, and ignore my own advice of taking whatever you find, instead just wandering back over to the Bexhill-adjacent seating and going to sleep.

Massive fan of the whole ‘what if a Creature spat water at you’ thing
Thirty minutes later, I’m ready to take on the world (breakfast). Once that’s taken on, it’s time to think about where I’m sleeping. I know, it’s not even midday yet and I’m planning – disgusting. The key thing I need tonight is wifi; I want to be able to talk to people !! I also need to upload my little back-catalogue of blogs and do my taxes, but primarily it’s for call purposes :]

I find a pretty sweet looking place in Saint-Alban-sur-Limognole, and figure I can justify a shorter day today. I’ve had two longer ones today and yesterday, only a few kilometres off thirty each time; surely a 19km day was fine. Plus, it’s €4 to camp – no brainer. I send an email when the call goes dead, hoping they respond. It says check-in opens at 3.00pm, and I’ll definitely be there by then, so that’s sorted. Another quick doze and I’m ready to go – I’m sure there’ll be water somewhere. I am not good at learning lessons.

There’s a reason I’m staying inside again – this part of France is a lot more densely populated than the last three weeks worth have been, and partly because it’s totally going to rain tonight. Not the best to set up a tent surrounded by villages. But oh well, €4 isn’t too bad – and even if that fails, I can stomach the usual €20. For a bed and hot shower and wifi, I’ll manage <33

As I round the corner, the sky darkens. It’s definitely rain; I can see the curve of it, watch it come towards me. It’s still sunny on the mountain, still warm, but the cloud-front is approaching quick. Doom on the horizon and what-not. It makes all the flowers look so much brighter though, pinks and yellows popping against the monotonous background. So many silver linings :]

Rain in the distance !
I follow the highway without red and white stripes for long enough that I get convinced I’m lost, and rather than backtrack, have solidly resigned myself to the 9km of road-walking I have before me – only to find the markers a few hundred metres later. Also, the markers tell me there’s an extra three kilometres for no reason. I love this trail, but man why does there have to be so much natural beauty I need water.


-Le Rouget-

Le Rouget does have water, although it comes from a rusty hose and smells a little funny. I drink it regardless, and fill up my bottle. It takes me thirty minutes to notice Chunks in it, but when I do, I just scrunch my nose and try to ignore it. Water is water. Let’s just get it done (James Acaster still very much on the mind).

I was hoping for a rest spot in Le Rouget, but they’re both full of pilgrims. Aaaahh curse my cynic! We press on, cynic and optimist at each others throats. Joy. There’s cows though, and they’re sweet, and one is a little creepy but mostly they’re just gentle giants and I love them <33 They keep me company in the last stretch into town, and eventually I peel away, waving my furry (hairy?) friends goodbye as the path weaves through a final wheat-field and arrives at a stop sign just out of town.


-Saint-Alban-sur-Limognole-

Definitely one of the bigger towns of the last few days, Saint-Alban-sur-Limognole is quiet (it’s 1.30pm) and overwhelming, and set on the side of a mountain, so everything is stacked quite firmly atop one another. I waste an hour lounging on a park bench, writing about the cows and the day so far (hello, you!), and when the church bells ring three times, I make my way into the Centre Ville (ten bucks if you can guess the translation of that one, it’s a real head-scratcher).

Finding the refuge is a little horrifying, purely because everything is so jam-packed with buildings, but I eventually find it. I also find that there is zero room whatsoever, even for camping, because they’re hosting a party. Fair play, but I’m fucked. At the very least, there’s a weird little corner store here and – holy shit are those multiple cool postcards???? You’re fucking joking.

Best day of my life; there’s shitty headphones too. AndOrangina ? They know me so well. I cough up €12.50, well spent, then regroup outside in the drizzle as I attempt to figure out what to do. I need shelter for the night, a tent won’t work, not anywhere I can see. I ring every single gîte in town. I’m not joking – I dial thirteen seperate numbers. Thirteen seperate mangled Franglish conversations – not one bite. I give up, flick to the next stage. First place I call goes, in English, ‘Oh hell yeah man’. I’ve never felt more welcome.

On we go, then! I’ve got 7.5km to make till Les Estrets, and I want to get there vaguely early. By my standards at least; most of the pilgrims I’ve seen today are long gone, warm and showered. Ohh the dream <33 Except, it’s me, and things could never be so simple. I go the wrong way.

Yeah, yeah on the path where the arrows tell you which way to walk, I walked the wrong way. For two kilometres, yeah. Never once remembering that both sides of the signposts are marked. Never once looking back to maybe double check there aren’t massive red and white crosses behind you. Never once thinking ‘hey isn’t it weird that the way out of town seems to be taking you the exact same way it took you in?’.

Back to where I was, all the way back down, only to realise the sign was literally right above my head on the signpost I was leaning on in the drizzle. Fuck me. I wander on, trying to find some water, and I don’t, but what I do find is an open Spar tacked onto the side of a servo.

As per their very polite sign, I leave my rucksack in the crates outside, then clear the doors and beeline for the cold drinks. So much choice, so many smart options, so many other things besides the same fucking citrus drink – nope cool grab that, sure. I’m sort of second guessing if I need anything, and realise the only thing that would be nice is some bread. Right as I have that little lightbulb moment, though, I also have a blackout, because I’ve just seen they’ve got knockoff slushies. Oh my god.

A bit of terrible miming and a probably offensive fake French accent later, I leave armed with the worlds most expensive tiny cup of ice. It’s so terrible, neon blue, tastes like shit, and it’s perfect. Granita does not have a goddamn t h i n g on a real slushie, way closer to the 7/11 slurpee more than anything, but it’ll do. It’s cold, sweet ice, and it’s exactly what I need.

If you’re wondering if I’ve realised I’ve bought two things that can only make me thirstier, the answer is no, but give me about thirty minutes and I’ll get there.

You follow the road for just a little longer here, then fork off to the right into a little clump of trees – a perfect place to sleep, if you happen to be passing close to dusk. There’s a few benches here, in the shade, where no-one would be later in the day (or presumably, early in the morning), and you aren’t super visible from the trail. If anyone reading this is prone to sleeping on French benches, that I don’t know, but I figured just in case :]

Slivers of sky? (I want to swim)
From the patch of trees, it’s a straight shot uphill in the sun till you reach one of the giant stone crosses that litter the landscape. This one, though, points the way to your next stop.

 

[sunflowerfunk]

(Fake) Slushie Induced Nostalgia : Part Two
-Grazières-Mages-

Once again, you reach a beautiful little hamlet surrounded by jaw-dropping mountains covered in green, full of picturesque houses and French men in unnecessarily tight pants. You’ll probably have a bit of a ‘wow I’m so lucky I get to be alive in this world’ moment. Or at least, I assume you will, unless you’re the most jaded person on this earth.

But for all it’s beauty and natural charm, Grazières-Mages does not have a water fountain. I mean, it has a water fountain, just sans the water. The problem with massive country-wide heatwaves and extreme drought is water tends to be a little fucking tight – some of the smaller towns will stop theirs. Fair play, climate change is gonna kill us all, save your water. I could have knocked on any door, asked any person out in their yard, but I decided I could make it to the next stop, using pure teenage reasoning. Sure, I’d walked twenty odd kilometres without water, and was definitely starting to feel it – but I’d made it this far, right? What was another three?

As I walked, I played leapfrog with another pilgrim. He’d been the one to pass me this morning and wake me up, but I’d skipped him in The Wild. He’d then jumped past me as I slept by the chapel, but I’d caught him up in Le Rouget. When I got lost, he’d made it ahead, but I could see his green backpack as we climbed. It was fun; he’d only recently started to recognise me, and we had yet to swap words. A quick jokey nod, a move aside to let the other pass, and wait your turn.

Here, in between the two towns, it was my turn. I jumped up ahead as he stopped for a drink (the dream), and he laughed. I did too; it was good to be distracted. And speaking of distraction, Chabanes-Planes – which had to have water – was in the dip of the next valley, which meant all I have to do was clear this hill, so it was time to write (kinda). I couldn’t spend another minute thinking about distance or beds; I needed mental scribbles.

Helpfully, the cracks were wider here. I fell through, landed back in my hemisphere. If I didn’t look up, I could be anywhere. Sandy gravel and jagged rock, tree roots. How perfectly nowhere. I could’ve been on a coastal bushwalk, crunching spikey leaves underfoot, the Pacific somewhere to my left, surrounded by eucalyptus.

The roots were the most geographically pliable; they were thick and sturdy, earth eroded from beneath, a cast of the ground that once was, suspended in the air. They were the type you jump off, landing in dark tea-tree water, paperbark spiralling down in the wind to meet you. The kind that stretch up from the depths, poke you when you make dives to the bottom, send children screaming back to the surface.

These boots weren’t made for walking..
This was all the slushies fault – I was onto primary school. I would’ve killed for the classics, $2 servo Traveller beef pie (top peeled off, tomato sauce on the meat). A slushie, a real one, the kind they sold at the canteen in Year 4 before they got banned, red and blue and chunky fucking ice, sweeter than anything you should ever consume. 55¢ bag of Tiny Teddies, the ones with the chocolate back, the ones that’d melt all through the white paper before you could get to them. That cheeky summer heat, ‘no hat, no play’, bubblers in the cola.

And then I was thinking about the school before that, of OOSC (ousch) and learning to draw cartoon eyes, colouring in in long empty classrooms, cold and dark. Chicken two minute noodles in those clear green bowls with the scratchy stripes on the side, turkeys gobbling by the fence. Reading by the trees, trying not to get swopped by bastard plovers as I ignored the bell. Rebellion (not that I knew it).


-Chabanes-Planes-

And then I was at the welcome sign. Mental scribbles for the win. I love reminiscing :]

Thankfully, Chabanes-Planes had a functioning water tap, and I guzzled my heart out. Filled everything up, got leapfrogged. Finally said hello, promptly said goodbye. Such is the Camino! Sitting and breathing for a minute, trying to stretch my poor shoulders, I felt so peaceful. Only three kilometres to go till a shower, till warmth and calls and letter-writing.


-Les Estrets-

I won’t bore you with the last stretch before I arrived, given that it was mostly alongside sheep and cattle, but the sunset was shaping up to be quite beautiful. A smaller, not-quite-as-intense version of the descent before Pratclaux and I had arrived. Les Estrets is also fairly small, but it’s lovely – flowers in every window, cats prowling the streets. By the church, I diverged from the arrows, following the green ones instead, which would lead me to my home for the night.

Pilgrim piles :]
And who did I find by the entryway but my leapfrogger :]? Another hello, another laugh. A familiar face was nice to have. I followed his lead and took off my shoes, then we were welcomed inside by our host, credentials stamped and money swapped (€15 per night, sans food), then led upstairs. I regretted my decision the second we hit the stairs though – dinner smelt incredible. Fucking Christ what was that?

Ignoring my overeager stomach, I entered the room to find,, more people? That was definitely new – I’d never shared with more than one other person till now. Or, I guess that was a lie, there had been two Americans last-last night, but we were in seperate rooms so it didn’t count. Here, I was one of four. The first two had snagged great beds, but had chosen ones that made it weird for either of us to grab one too (ie. not corner ones, but ones that forced the other to pick one directly next to them). A little terrified, I picked a bunk bed. So did my leapfrogger.

We swapped names, realised English was the common language, which was, as I understood, new for everyone. My leapfrogger was from Paris, walking to Conques, the woman was from America, the man from Australia, and both were walking to Saint-Jean. We had quite the little mix, which was cool. The Australian had moved to Canada a long time ago, but had grown up relatively near where I was, so we had a bit of a back and forth, which was also new for me.

Dare I say, I got the conversation thing right for once? After a half hour, they left for dinner and I departed for my shower. Sweet, sweet relief. Hot was a stretch, but it was enough to relax my shoulders. My legs were beyond saving, I figured I’d just leave them up to God.

I ate my pesto tomato sandwich, popped the same blister again because it came BACK what the fuck (!!) and then got myself clean and ready for bed. Or, more accurately, ready to write. I rambled a bunch, scribbled some more, tried in vain to figure out a setting for my characters because without one they cannot exist, gave up, and finished writing this :]

Hello!! Time for our nightly debrief, I suppose. The lovely American lady just offered you snacks in case you were still hungry, and not to embarrass you by putting it on the internet forever, but the gesture did almost make you cry! You aren’t hungry, but I think maybe next time,,, ma y b e getting the food would be okay. Because that smelt otherworldly, even if it did turn out to be wild boar <33

---

Day 22 – September 11th

??? to Les Estrets

27.4km

~82.9km total

€31.20

~ €87.63 total

(446.6km combined)

(€719.86 combined)

 

[sunflowerfunk]

Day 23 : Demi-Pension and Pensioners
-Les Estrets-

It was an interesting way to wake up, that’s for sure. Four strangers with entirely seperate schedules and ideas of decency. The man leaves with a rustle at 6.30am. I don’t realise. The woman turns the bright lights on at 7.00am on the dot. Fair play. My Parisian leapfrogger rolls over and goes back to sleep. My man.

I try, but it’s useless. I’m up. Trying to ignore the smells of breakfast, I get ready. I’ve given up on paying for French breakfasts; €5 to €10 for some bread and jam is not my kinda tune. Little lunch does not quite cut it for a day of walking – I’d happily shoulder a little extra weight in the form of food instead. Speaking of; I really need food.

I’ve decided today will be a slower day; I already know I’m going to stay in a gîte again. I know, I know, my poor frugality, it’ll be okay, breathe. It’s due to rain, and sure, it said that yesterday and it didn’t, but this time it’s already cloudy, and they look pissed. And, I don’t know man, beds are nice. Especially if you get them for a few euros more than a campsite – minus accidentally picking the worlds creakiest bed, last night was quite lovely.

My goal is to get to Aumont-Aubrac, get my food shopping sorted, and then figure the rest out. It’s due to break at four, so I’ve got loads of time. At 8.00am, I set out. It’s a nippy morning, and I’m shivering all the way out of Les Estrets. I can see the American in the distance, and I’m just following her. The arrows take you back out, across the road and to the right, where you pass the last few houses, turn left and go directly uphill for a few minutes. It’s rough, but it’ll stop the shivering; it’s real fucking nippy out.

Here, you’ll meet the rising sun and feel warm, then hot, then realise you probably should have applied sunscreen – but also you’re not going to stop until Aumont-Aubrac, skin cancer be damned. You wander along more sandy gravel paths up a few slopes, down more, passing lovely non-literal golden cows in the fields of wheat.

Pretty girl !!!
It’s a beautiful morning, if chilly, and, more than a slow day, today is about being nice to my knees. The poor things are actually worrying me now, so I’m going exceptionally slowly on every downhill. I refuse to get arthritis from anything other than cracking my knuckles, especially not because of something this stupid. So I’m taking itty bitty baby steps down the hill when I reach the first houses.


-Bigose-

Only a kilometre and a half from Les Estrets, Bigose is not BigNose, even though that’s all I can read it as. I’m 100% certain I’m mentally massacring every French town I come across, and I can prove it; I’m pronouncing Bigose like Stingos. Can almost guarantee it’s not fucking close.

I think I don’t like sheep actually ?
Anyway, Bigose is cool because it has water and I’m totally not out again because I pay attention and am good at learning my lessons and also am an adult aware of my own needs. With that aside; I really need a drink. Naturally, water fountains are a zilch. At least, none that are directly on the path, because why would I stop, I’m not in Amount-Aubrac yet !!

I’ve still got half a bottle though, so we’re sweet. Just shy of 6km until town, and food, and everything else – better settle in. Out comes the music, on goes the mental scribbling; I tried to use the headphones and it felt so awful not being able to hear anything else, so I’d given up. They were reserved for late-night listening now, which worked great given that was the time I spent writing and that definitely required some tunes.

More Mumford and Sons, more Lumineers. I was on a roll goddamnit, and I was not getting off. Weirdly, even though I was intentionally not rushing, my pace bumped it’s way up to 4.0km an hour, what I’d been trying to achieve since I started. Probably a metaphor and/or lesson in there somewhere, but I’ve yet to master drinking water and not shitting myself, so slow down.


-Aumont-Aubrac-

I didn’t realise I was in Aumont-Aubrac for the first five minutes of being in Aumont-Aubrac, but I clocked it at the welcome sign. Master of perception, and all that. There were about twenty pilgrims all lounging around the local bar, knocking back orange juice and pastries, and the synchronicity was quite mesmerising. But it would not be my destination this morning – I was heading straight for the little cornerstore, Astromarkt.

Not only did they usually have some good little souvenirs, but hopefully they had cards. And they did. Not quite as cool as the ones from yesterday, but y’know <33 I grabbed a few other essentials; some tomatoes, haribo, a singular carrot, the usual.

After a brief shitty souvenir snoop, I left with a few overpriced trinkets. Perfect. My next stop: the local picnic spot – which turned out to just be a hill motorhomes could park on next to a bank parking lot. That works! And something crazy happened here; I had a bad pesto tomato sandwich. Something about it made me gag, the tomatoes all wrong. No no no, what was I going to dowithout my trusty sandwich??? Choosing to believe it was an isolated incident, I got some money out of the ATM, wrote a card in the very windy parking lot, and pressed on.

Completely forgetting the water.

Anyway! While recovering from my terrible sandwich, I had had a nose through my potential accomodations for the day, and landed on a little place in Les Quatre Chemins, ten odd kilometres away. It’d be my shortest day in a while, but my knees would thank me. As would my brain ; all I want to do is make a call work and do my taxes p l e a s e. The gîte yesterday had had no reception and it had not been too ideal.

Big fan of the cheery ‘fuck you !’ middle octopus
So, fuelled with haribo, I continued on along the path. The arrows led me out along the main street, then sent me sharply right, up some more sandy gravel. It’d be my most ‘isolated’ day yet on the Podiensis, not that I knew it. But still, I saw no-one, so the music could play. I got a little too nostalgic, went through the playlist that seemed perfect in November, listened to songs that I could only ever associate with K’Gari.

That naturally inspired a minor spiral on my value in friendships and my lack of understanding of them; cheery shit! I’d essentially struggled with it forever; platonic companionship had always felt just out of reach, like I’ve been grasping at the air when it comes to meaningful friendships, phasing in and out of them. I struggle to maintain, forget to communicate, I drift. I was severely lacking in the friends department, and I really couldn’t tell if I minded or not.

Even now, in trying to figure myself out, I’d cut myself off from them; deleting everything off my phone and making it impossible for anyone besides my partner and immediate family to contact me. I guess I was still sort of seeing myself as seperate to everyone; I could be the person I am in relation to other people fairly easily, but I had no clue as to what I was like without the external pressure (however well meaning).

With those fiercely optimistic thoughts running ruin, I continued on till I saw church spires in the distance. At least I could spiral in the metaphorical shadow of the lord and the literal shadow of the church; it was hot.


-La Chaze-de-Peyre-

As it would transpire, the church belonged to La Chaze-de-Peyre, and was complete with toilets and potable water. Thank you, Jesus and/or residents of La Chaze-de-Peyre, pilgrims everywhere will thank you by,, pissing on the floor. Men </3

I had been planning on pausing, but I sort of just wanted to keep going, keep spiralling. It was sort of like a test run; usually when I get in little holy-shit-who-am-I-and-what-have-I-done ruts, I just distract rather than deal with it, but I literally had nothing better to do. Let’s see where this goes !!

So I shouldered the pack again, trudged forward. This time, for the first time, the arrows didn’t lead me to the church, but one street over. The pilgrimage ??? Not go to a church ?? What the fuck was going on ??

More confusing, given that I’d picked up the pack two seconds ago, were the houses starting to pass me by, and the chapel. What ?? Two kilometres go by like the blink of an eye if you’re Thinking, as it turns out. I went inside the chapel, and it was,, interesting. You could pay €2 to light a shitty candle in a plastic jar with a stretched image of Saint Jacques, our guy. Or you could just write in the funny book all the churches had.

So I did. Sampled, if you will. I never knew what to write, but I knew it wouldn’t be quite as religious as some of the others. I also knew my actual sentiments on religion probably wouldn’t be best received here. No cutting edge wit was granted to me today though, so I went with a generic ‘Good luck + Bon Chemin!’, signing it ‘Max from Australia’. I’d written in one other book so far, and my German roomie had recognised me from the Australia thing, so that worked for now.

Storms building, again <33

-Lasbros-

Oh yeah, I was technically in Lasbros now. I couldn’t entirely tell where La Chaze-de-Peyre ended and Lasbros began, given that it seemed the only thing that separated them was about half a hill, but hey. From here, I had only four kilometres to go – just about an hour.

And it was a pretty hour. With water and a choccy bikkie or two, I was feeling way better about the state of the world – I could enjoy the scenery again. I’d missed most of it today, being mainly preoccupied with melodramatic ruminating. We were back in the New Pine Forest, where lichen covered all, and the trees were not so close together. Where they stretched, warped. Generally, they barely felt like the same tree.

It also felt more,, sparse is I guess the right word. They seemed to be more conservative in their pine-ness, broken up with golden fields of wheat. Also, was it wheat? It sort of looked wheat-like, but I also don’t think I’ve ever seen close up wheat. Does wheat just,, grow? Without being planted? The more I think about this the more I realise I think maybe it’s just a type of grass actually. When I have any sort of reception I’ll check, but my phone is still evil and hating me so for now it’ll stay wheat <33

There were also cows dotted in the wheat fields – no okay it totally was just grass right?? Like no farmer would grow wheat and put cows in it,,, right?? I’ve never felt less sure of a topic in my life and it is one that matters least in the list of topics-I’m-unsure-on. The clouds were getting real dark now, and I’m so distracted by the whole wheat thing that I almost walk straight past the gîte.


-Les Quatre Chemins-

From what I can tell, Les Quatre Chemins is a gîte and a cafe for pilgrims, and not much else. At least, not today; because the rain starts as I make my way indoors. Not much, but enough to get me to not go back out for a while.

Oh, and my host does not speak a lick of English – which would be fine, if I had reception for help from google translate. Unfortunately, I do not. Aahhhh shit okay. Eventually, we figure out that I did call earlier, and I do have a bed to sleep in. Thank god, because I am about ready to give out.

She shows me the kitchen, the room for my things. In France, there’s a fairly strict system in most gîtes to avoid bedbugs; in this one, you leave your shoes and bag (and walking sticks) downstairs in an isolated room, then put the things you’ll need in a little bin which you can bring up. I’m told to go up, get comfortable, have a shower and bring my dirty clothes down (for the last one, another pilgrim is enlisted to help translate). I go to pay for just a bed – then find out it’s demi-pension (dinner, bed, breakfast) only. Oh.

Okayyy, €40 as opposed to €15 isn’t g r e a t but I’m already here, I can’t exactly say n o. I’m assured there will be a vegetarian option, and with that I decide maybe this is the sign from yesterday, that I should take the demi-pension. Whatever, new experiences, right!! Right?? Oh god this is so scary.

The upside to being young though, easily, is that instead of ‘what a dick, coming to a country barely knowing a word of the language‘, the common sentiment expressed is ‘aah, youthful naivety, thinking the world will move to accomodate you‘. And, y’know, I’ll take the advantages where I can get them.

Showered and warm, I retreat to the room I’ve been assigned, scribble down some of the days happenings. There’s no internet (again), but I’ll figure something out. I can hear new people arriving; I know enough French to know ‘I’ll put you in this room, because the one in that one can only speak English‘. Not that that’s particularly a downside, but hey!

Standard gîte room, from what I can tell :]
After a while, my lovely host knocks on the door, and in come two people. They smile at me, say hello. Hello. They’re a couple from Denmark, and they’re so fucking lovely – they essentially adopt me for the evening. One a teacher, one a pastor, they travel now (as she’s been retired since September 1st), and this is their second stage of the Podiensis, having gone from Le Puy to here last year.

They speak Danish, English, French, German, Swedish, Finnish and Italian – my measly English and German cower before them. We seperate until dinner, where I find myself asking to sit beside them. Thankfully, they indulge me. I’m not the only one happy about the arrangement – my host is thrilled. It’s very cute, how much she wants me to feel included.

Dinner is,,, dinner. My frugality isn’t thrilled, but I can confidently say that whatever the fuck the French do with carrots and beetroot is magic. It’s the starter, and it’s better than anything I’ve ever eaten. Give me that all day every day please my g o d. The main is veggies and rice, and it’s good!!! Everything is good!!! Just probably not an experience I need to repeat too many times. The cheese course is incredibly funny though. Just a bunch of cheese slices for everyone, sure. I take mine, terrified of it being bad but it’s actually quite delicious. Borderline cheddar.

Dessert is apple compote that unfortunately for my weak uncultured tastebuds is just baby food, but I get a mini ‘French lesson’ by the woman opposite me who tells me it is ‘DU compot DU pommes’. When I’ve repeated it a few times, she nods her approval. Sidenote, but here potatoes are ‘ground-apples’ which fucking rules.

I’m also one of two people under sixty. The oldies LOVE walking in France, and most of them are doing stages – like the Danish couple. There’s fourteen of us, and it’s a little overwhelming. They’re very sweet, and assuming the best of me and trying to speak French, which leads to a lot of sheepish apologies on my end and a lot of vaguely disappointed looks on theirs. It’s an odd dinner, but the Danish help me translate, and eventually the other younger person leans over and reveals they also speak English, which is nice.

Post dinner, I finish up and finally manage to call them, instantly forgetting everything. I think it feels like so much more is happening when I write it all down, but out loud it just feels,, small. Like written down, 2000km is a lot – out loud, I just walk. Weird little discrepancies and intense worry aside, it was nice :]

Sitting outside so I didn’t disturb people sleeping, wind whipping about, the storm on the horizon, coming ever closer. The hedgehog bumbling around, snuffling through the grass. Stay safe little guy!

And so I’m back again. Another day down, however many more to go – what am I going to do with myself when it’s over? I need to get better at Saying Things. I feel extraordinarily frazzled, and embarrassed for reasons I can’t pinpoint, and just generally confused. Words are hard, but writing makes so much sense. Sorry if it sucked today – I’m tired. Hopefully I’ll make more sense in the morning – I’ll see you then :]

---

Day 23 – September 12th

Les Estrets to Les Quatre Chemins

17.1km

~ 100km total

€52

~ €139.63 total

(464.7 combined)

(€771.86 combined)

 

[sunflowerfunk]

Day 24 : A Drizzly Day :]
-Les Quatre Chemins-

Last night was an experience, that’s for sure. My roommates were the loudest snorers I’ve ever experienced – couldn’t tell if it was the thunder shaking the walls or them. The storm was brilliant though. Ink black sky, the last few gray clouds swallowed by the darkness, bright white lightning. I remember writing something in Year Six where I described lightning strikes as bones left behind in the sky – what a pretentious little nerd. Cute.

They also turned the light on at exactly 7.00am and went, “GOOD MORNING! ”, which was for sure the most enthusiastic morning start to date. I tossed and turned a little, but it was conversation time, apparently. If I sound grouchy, it’s because it’s 7.00am and people are talking to me. I am. As much as I like them, no one should be able to exist until at least 10.00am, I think.

Anyway, we’re up, we’re organised (not), and we’re getting ready to leave. Bringing everything back down to the bag room, totally not almost leaving your towel behind, and then it’s 7.30am; time for breakfast. Oh boy. Listen, last night was stressful enough, braving the whole thing again barely conscious was not entirely something I was excited for. It was,, French breakfast. Delicious bread with way too sweet jam and coffee. 1/3 of the way there for me.

Also? I had a bone to pick with the French; what the fuck did they have against salted butter? Y’know what, actually, the Germans get looped in too. Is it a European thing? Actually I think in America it was the same too – is it an Australian thing? Unsalted butter is so,,,, gross?? It doesn’t taste like anything it’s just slime why would you ever put that on perfectly good bread? Jam and salted butter – yum. Salted butter and vegemite – even better (okay that one was definitely Australian). Nutella and salted butter – my god.

The point is : I couldn’t even chow down on some bread and butter to balance out the jam because it was so tastless </3 I’ll add salted butter to the list of Australian foods I was missing, right under the category of Things That Taste Like Something. I wanted to be punched in the face with flavour : at the moment (after one meal and multiple breakfasts) French food was not living up to the hype !!!! No way am I judging too soon that would be so weird.

Anyway, breakfast eaten, stomach turning, and board paid (ouch), I was off. It was a grim little morning, freezing and drizzly, sky dark gray and car lights slanting and stretching in the rain. Tell you a secret; when cars drive past you fast while it’s raining, you get real fucking cold, real fucking fast. So I was immensely glad when the path forked off from the road almost immediately. I passed the first few chunks of last nights fourteen fairly quickly; my pace was speeding up. Practice, or whatever.

What I didn’t know, at this point, was that today would be one of the prettiest days of my entire walk so far, one to rival the mountains past Yenne. And I couldn’t help but be glad in retrospect; the gloom made for incrediblescenes all day long. Maybe it’s just something about mist and rain that makes everything look insane.

It started fairly standard for the past few days; pine trees and mud. Christmas trees had started popping up everywhere too, and that was making me really happy, but nothing compared with the scenes that greeted me when I emerged from the little woods. A quick wander across a green field full of soaking sheep, two gates made of wire and wood that you have to unhook and drag back into place, where you’ll panic because people are behind you but not close enough so you kinda half close them and look apologetic and confused and they have to nod each time for you to not feel like an asshole, and you’ll be there too.

Gray meets yellow
Today is a day of wheat-grass (it’s definitely grass) and stone. The yellow of the grass clashes brilliantly against the sky, and the massive chunks of volcanic stone litter the fields. For the next ten kilometres, fog will drift across through the fields, covering the rocky monuments before your eyes; occasional cowbells and deep moos echo across the empty expanse of gold. You’re following a well-trodden dirt path barely wide enough for one, and your pants will be absolutely sopping by the end with the amount of dew and rain passed onto you by the bushes to either side, but it doesn’t matter at all.

I spent the first two and a half hours of the morning quietly going, “oh what the fuck“, every time I turned a corner or crested a hill. It was unbelievable – photos don’t do it justice. The endless grass stretches into the horizon, split with low stone fences. And, after a while, I reach something,, new ?? A massive stone circle, at the top of a hill with nothing else for kilometres. Okay? It’s got inscriptions (French, shocker), and all I can make out is that it might be a round map of the rivers of the area (??), based on the names I recognise. Either way, it looks really cool. Massive Thing all alone, and it isn’t another cross? Score <33

Stone on stone on stone
I took a few pictures, had another “how fucking crazy is it that I get to exist in a world this pretty” moment, got overtaken by another hiker, got competitive, forced myself to stop being competitive (it was still ‘be nice to my knees’ time), and carried on. More little things; there were two red berry trees that sent shockwaves through the gray, and the same was true of the little purple flowers growing between the cracks in the stone.

The cows are sandy brown, blending in, and occasionally you’ll startle one another as you pass. You might also hypothetically startle another pilgrim by being rightbehind them ready to overtake when they suddenly pause and turn around and go, “JESUS CHRIST!!”, and then when you apologise and start laughing, they might hypothetically go, in a really strong accent, “I am PRAYING now”. Hypothetically, that might send you chuckling downhill all the way into Rieutort d’Aubrac.


-Rieutort d’Aubrac-

This will take you entirely by surprise, because you’re definitely not meant to be here yet – but, as it turns out, you just didn’t read the names of the places you were passing. Sure, Finieyrols was a town, and you passed one of those, but that was boring and you wanted to get back to the grass. And yeah, there was a cross, but that could’ve been anywhere and – I wonder what ‘Roc des Loups’ means. Surely not Loop of Rock. Yyeeaaahh okay I walked longer than I thought I did.

Rieutort is quaint, and clearly loves their pilgrim tourism; there’s a small cafe as you enter catered towards the sad pilgrim-shaped huddle of dripping backpacks, and several extraordinarily phallic-shaped water fountains. Seats, tables, toilets, you name it. Be a great place to stop, if you aren’t stubborn and already decided you won’t do that till you get to Nasbinals.

Crazy clouds !! Holy shit
Not that that lasts, for the record. By the time you hit the village of Montgros three odd kilometres later, you’re not feeling quite so stubborn, and in the now drizzle-less cold, you can’t help but have a little sit down on an incredibly appealing stone near someone’s front yard. You don’t have to spend too much time thinking about that though; there’s about to be a chicken stampede. I don’t know if you’ve ever seen a bunch of weirdly lanky chickens cohesively sprint down a road, but I highly recommend it. Crazy fucking animals, all gross skin and crusty feathers.

Anyway, you listen to another yet-to-be-introduced voice in your head, the writer, for awhile. She’s an old Australian woman with that classic grannie perm who waves aside absolutely any emotion in favour of a ramble.

“Have a bikkie and a scribble darl, you’ll be right.”

So you take half her advice; a choccy bikkie (we all have our vices) later, I’m ready for the final 3km.

It’s another stretch of cool yellow fields, but the rocky road (going on the list of things I miss) is a little tiring. And also; I’ve decided on a bit of a change of plan. Originally, I was going to stop in Aubrac, 12km away. But,,,, that sort of seemed boring now. I’d noticed that I felt less exhausted at the end of my days now, or at least that I always felt like I could’ve gone further – even though my last few days (minus last night) had all been pushing the higher twenties. So, why not a challenge.

30km. I’d push on through to Saint-Chérly-d’Aubrac, where there was a campsite. Even though it’d been drizzling on and off, it allegedly wouldn’t rain tonight – seemed like a pretty great night for a (cheap) tent. I’d gotten a little too used to the luxuries; I wanted a shower every night. I was justifying my constant indoors-ness with the rain; without it, I’d sleep outside way more.

More reflections because I love clouds !!
With my challenge in mind, I went for speed. Earbuds in (sorry to any severely injured people in ditches, I’m not your man today), listening to music fifteen year old me loved, I let my mind run wild, hoping my feet would try to catch up. I was right. Beside a stream, across a bridge and over a hill; shittily air-drumming till I hit the first houses.


-Nasbinals-

Nasbinals is really cool, old stone houses and tangled ivy covering everything, smashed stained-glass. And this awesome cow-wearing-flowers statue. Could a town even get better?

Pure artistry
It turns out, yes, a town can get better. There’s an Astromarkt – with an épicerie attached, and envelopes. Finally!!! I could send my mail!!! I grabbed some essentials (haribo and cherry tomatoes), hoped it was cold enough for Comté to keep, and then saw it. Salade de Carottes Râpées Assaisonée. The fucking carrot thing from yesterday – holy shit. You can just buy it? I think I’ve just introduced a new vegetable to my rotation.

The only thing this lovely little markt was missing was some bread, but no fear – there’s a patisserie right across the road, and I’ve decided today is the day I rebrave the whole ‘can I please have a singular baguette please‘ thing. This time, I’m prepared for follow up questions – she has none.

Armed with a 95¢ baguette that is sure to taste better than any bread I’ve eaten in my life, I sat on the church steps and wrote the last card, then got it ready to post. I just,, didn’t know where. I guess I’d wait till I passed a little box? How did it work in France?

A problem for later – the clouds are dark, and it’s really starting to drizzle; I don’t know when it’s going to break, but I definitely don’t want to be there when it does. The baguette is strapped between my tent and dirty socks (you get used to it quicker than you’d think), the letters tucked away, raincover (mostly) on. It was time to leave Nasbinals.

The way shifted, scenery switched. The stretch between Nasbinals and Aubrac is about nine kilometres of the same grass, but almost nothing else. It’s incredibly sick, and I love it. Occasionally abandoned stone houses falling apart from the inside out will creep up on you from behind a hill, shatter the monotony. It’s perfect.

Isolation :]
Many of the French paths you walk have, in order to secure the dirt, smashed red roof tiles into fine chunks and poured them everywhere. Mostly, this is a fun new terrain to navigate, but sometimes, in the damp, the colours bleed, blend together. The dirt turns red, sends me on another hemispherical tailspin – red cliffs meeting the sea – but a quick whip of the frigid wind brings me back.

The clouds are closing in; you can see the rain hitting the hills ahead of you, shivering in the cold. Somehow though, the closer you get, the more it drifts. You’ve managed to beat the storm, get behind it – you watch as your less fortunate counterparts downhill brace for impact.

So pretty <33
Low stone fences, the same sandy cows. A wooden cross or two on the horizon. Briefly, you’ll follow the side of a forest, see a farm peeking through the cracks, then you’ll peel away again, back to the land of golden waves and cattle gates. After a (very) long stretch of cow shit and muddy stones, you’ll reach your final grate; then a spike. You’re walking to the highest point on the entire Podiensis, and you don’t even know it. It’s nothing like the climbs of the Gebennensis – this time, it’s just another hill. And then you’re at the top, and you can see Aubrac, and this is the highest you’ll get for a month – 1364m above sea level.

The back of the storm, from the highpoint

 

[sunflowerfunk]

A Drizzly Day :] : Part Two
-Aubrac-

Aubrac definitely has a,, unique silhouette (first time I’ve ever spelt that right on my first try). Its church is sharp and rectangular, more blocky than anything, like my brother and I’s Minecraft houses when we got a massive old clunky family computer for the first time, the cabinet wheezing its way through another summer. Nostalgia where you least expect it.

Bitty baby :]
Here is where I finally take my first break, 20km into the day, and find the tiniest ladybug I’ve ever seen in my life. Oh, and a bit of free advice? If you notice, say, 6km into your walk that your socks are sopping because you walked through a puddle that was just a bit too deep for your Gortex, take the fuckers off. When I peeled them off afor the first time here, they were capital g Gross.

I’m talking wrinkled, skin peeling, smelling like hell, the whole shebang. They hurt, no more than usual though, so I knew the whole looking-like-they-were-rotting thing was fine. Unfortunately, those passing me were not privy to that information. And if you’re sort of waving this off, fair play, I’m known to be a tad dramatic – but here’s some corroborating evidence.

A lady who walked past as I took them off stopped directly in my periphery, pretended she forgot something to walk past again, walked back, looked at me with so much concern in her eyes and said,

“Is it medical?”

“Medical?” I must have misunderstood her French.

“Contagious,” she corrects herself in English, “contagious!”

Blissfully unaware of how bad they look yet, I cheerily ask for clarification.

“Your condition.”

So that was hilarious. I assured her it was definitely not, and she left, significantly less worried (hopefully). I left my ugly numb toes to air dry, trying to ignore the smell (if I have to live it, you have to hear about it) as I ate. Today’s lunch went hard. I would happily eat that carrot salad for every meal of the rest of my life, all I needed now was the beetroot. I mixed it with somewhat stale baguette and Comté and,,, Ratatouille fireworks scene <33 And eventually, some pesto too because who would I be without it?

And here, as I ate, I saw someone. It started in the distance, a man walking uphill with a familiar gait, talking to someone on Facetime. As the phone moved, I saw the friendly five o’clock shadow – my leapfrogger! He must have also had a shorter day in the rain yesterday; we had almost exactly the same pace. I smiled, waved, and he grinned and walked over.

“We meet again!”

“So we do,” he laughs, “are you staying here tonight?”

“No, just for lunch – I’m going to Saint-Chérly.”

“Well, I guess I’ll see you on the way then :]”

And he moves away again, following those arrows.

Excited at the prospect of some leapfrogging, I enjoy the last of my lunch and begin to pack up. It’s getting dark again, and I’d quite like to avoid the downpour while I can – the forecast isn’t leaving me hopeful – so with a quick clean (wipe on my pants) of the pocket knife and a replacement of my rain cover, I follow my leapfrogger. I also don’t throw my rubbish in the bin because there’s someone in front of it and end up carrying it till the next bin, 5km away, but that isn’t as important.

Skeletons in the forest
It is, to what should be no-one’s surprise, a very pretty seven kilometres to Saint-Chély-d’Aubrac. A little more yellow grass, then you enter a wooded tunnel through the trees, where birds dart and chirp in the green light. Down some unsteady rock paths, and I meet my leapfrogger. More laughter, “you again!”, and a few little questions, then I pull ahead. He’ll pass me in the morning – he’s staying at a gîte directly above the campground.

From here, the stones become even more unsteady, slick with rain and steep, following the curve of a jagged chunk of rock rising vertically from its surroundings. It’s volcanic, and ancient and fucking awesome. Down a tiny bit more rock then you’re in Belvezet, surrounded by decaying huts. A bin – you can ditch the rubbish – and some tables, but not for you. You can’t stop till you get there, because the drizzle is back and this time, you haven’t managed to avoid the storm.

It’s new, again, all mossy woods and damp air. Thick and overwhelmingly green, underbrush stopping you from seeing a metre in front of you. You pass a woodworkers shop kilometres from the closest house; he tinkers inside and the smell of sawdust and varnish floats out to meet you as you walk past his hand-carved mushroom decorations – the dream.

Some very helpful moss :]
And then the storm breaks. Rain, real rain, for the first time all day, hammering into your shoulders. Wouldn’t be as much of a problem if you weren’t going straight downhill. Progress slows to a crawl as you’re soaked in the deluge. Sun creeps through the cracks, makes rainbows in the air. Pros and cons :]

Two kilometres until Saint-Chély, one. You stumble from the rock onto a road, rain running rivulets down your arms and the small of your back. Feels as good as it sounds. And then – there! House number one.


-Saint-Chély-d’Aubrac-

Now, I might regret saying this in the morning, but I’ve walked almost 30km already and I feel,, fine? Last time my limbs were giving out and I was in agony, but this time I honestly contemplate continuing to walk. Eventually, it’s only the rain that pushes me down the main street and away from the arrows to the campsite. It’s a bit of a scary system : fill out a form, set up your tent, get a little number and then the guy will come collect the money at,,, some point??

Luckily, I only scramble with the form briefly, and then the guy himself arrives – that definitely works. €8 forked over and I’m on my way to the showers. I think I might have to justify a stupid expensive villa type night every so often because tepid water that stops running every thirty seconds really isn’t quite as nice as burning hot water you can sit in – but it’ll definitely do for now.

It’s absolutely so cold, even in the sleeping bag, which is a little nuts. I’m in a Very weird nostalgia spiral, to the tune of shitty pop punk that I thought was the pinnacle of music in 2018 (they all still go so hard though.,.,) and people I haven’t spoken to in years. And I’ve got a bit of a backlog of blogs, so I’ll leave you know, jamming out to old Fall Out Boy albums that fourteen year old me has permanently burnt into the recesses of my brain <33

Hopefully your fourteen year old self chose music a little better than mine did,,,

---

Day 24 – September 13th

Les Quatre Chemins to Saint-Chély-d’Aubrac

30.1km

~ 130.1km total

€22.95

~ €162.58 total

(494.8km combined)

(€791.81 combined)

 

[Peterexpatkiwi]

Blooming heck mate, that part 1 was a marathon reading session! Not really complaining mind you, seriously glad you've started posting again. I absolutely hate putting a good book down in the middle of a chapter, and part 1 must have taken me an hour to read... . That's a seriously long chapter! Bloody good though, you really carry us with you, and dispite your trial's and tribulations, somehow always make me laugh. When you're done, you just have to send this entire thread to a publisher. If you're not a professional writer already, you flaming well ought to be.
That, coming from this self proclaimed bookworm, is high praise indeed . Keep it coming!

 

[David Harper]

That, coming from this self proclaimed bookworm, is high praise indeed . Keep it coming!

Peter, I am recently retired and want to spend more time reading. Do you have some favorites that you would reccomend? I know this is a broad question, but i would be interested in some of your favorites. TY!

 

[Peterexpatkiwi]

Heck David, that's a tough question. I'm currently based in Germany so anything in English works for me!
I'm afraid I'm not much of one for the classics. I love escapism, probably one of the reasons why I am enjoying this thread so much.... . It's so easy with Max's writing to just imagine myself there.
My reading tastes are very eclectic. I thoroughly enjoy a good non-fiction book especially adventure travel.
But first and foremost I enjoy my science fiction, science fantasy and thrillers. Although if I was forced to name one author my favorite is probably Neville Shute. Way before my time a lot of his writing is set just after the second World war. Very close behind, in fact probably interchangeable is Isaac Asimov, the acknowledged father of robotics. For light reading nothing beats Terry Pratchett, or the Queen of Science fantasy, Anne McCaffrey. Looking at my bookshelf I also see Tolkien, John Grisham, Roald Dahl, Ruth Rendall, PD James, Agatha Christie, Michael Connelly, Cathy Reichs , Lee Child and Dan Brown. I would go on but then the list is going to be as long as one of Max's posts!

 

[David Harper]

I would go on but then the list is going to be as long as one of Max's posts!

Too funny! It appears we have similar tastes. Thanks for sharing!

 

[Peterexpatkiwi]

@sunflowerfunk . Hey Max, where are you now? I need another fix! Sunday evening and nothing to read....

 

[nycwalking]

@sunflowerfunk . Hey Max, where are you now? I need another fix! Sunday evening and nothing to read....

Exactly.

 

[JabbaPapa]

so imagine my surprise when I hear a voice to my left. It’s French, so I don’t understand it, but I definitely hear something! I pause, listen. The crunch of gravel starts to sound like people when you walk long enough, and on more than one occasion I’ve assumed I was with someone when it was just me. Looking around and seeing nothing, hearingnothing, I took another few steps. There it was again!

I stepped over to the left, looked around the tree – hell, looked up the tree! No one, anywhere. And then, again. Something. And then I look down.

There, directly to my left, two and a half meters down, is a man. His limbs are twisted at impossible angles, and he’s covered in blood. He laughs, ‘Merci, merci, merci’. But I’m almost frozen. I can see the white of his skull. He’s got lacerations on every available inch of skin; arms, legs, face, neck. There’s a sharp stick going directly through his arm. He’s still talking, but I can’t understand a word. I’m completely alone. And there’s no one for hours. Fuck.

I jump into the ditch with him, fumble with the thistles and weeds that surround him. One stings my hand, and I jerk back, remembering what Craig had told me yesterday, when he found them under our washing line; “those ones bite”. This man was surrounded by them, frail skin burnt and covered in thorns. If I moved them, it would injure him more – and I wouldn’t be able to understand him if he asked me to stop. Shit shit shit.

He tries to talk, but no amount of broken French I can muster works for this scenario. Google translate, my last hope, refuses to pick up his voice. I can talk to him, but he cannot respond. He’s starting to realise that I can’t help him, not enough. But the answers I do understand are more confusing. No ambulance, but please help. I try to dial anyway, but it won’t ring. My first aid kit feels like a kiddy bandaid, completely unprepared for this. And he’s still bleeding. I tell him I could go ask for help at the nearest houses but he says ‘non non non’, refuses to let me leave. I’d later learn he had been there for hours, and no one had come.

And so we wait, wait for someone, anyone. I give him water, and he refuses. We wait. My heart is going about a million miles an hour, and every time I look at his head I have to crouch down for fear of fainting. We wait. I’m trying to keep him talking. Five minutes, ten, thirty. Finally, the distant clack of walking poles. It’s a woman, who is very confused when I pop out of the long eroded ditch bone white and joltily ask if she can get help. She comes to the side and drops her walking poles. ‘Un moment!’

She’s back with help in five minutes, two men who leap into action, harshly tearing back the thorns, jumping in beside him. The other gets water, forces him to drink, the woman calling for an ambulance. I stay crouched near the first man, trying to explain why I’m here. He speaks a few phrases of English – we make do. The ambulance arrives and I watch as they lift him out, skin peeling from his arms. I’ve never felt nausea like this, and when they declare everything all clear I speed away towards Frangy, towards shade, dunking my head in the nearest fountain and trying to breathe.

Now you know what it means to be a Camino Angel.

God Bless you !! And him !!

 

[JabbaPapa]

The key problem with this is that my father and I are far more alike than any of my younger selves could have ever imagined, so when he leans on the kitchen counter and says something along the lines of ,”that’s all well and good, but if you’re planning to diverge so much why not try a longer walk like say – the Camino ?”, I never stood a chance.

You are a natural.

And God Bless your amazing father !!

 

[sunflowerfunk]

@sunflowerfunk . Hey Max, where are you now? I need another fix! Sunday evening and nothing to read....

I'm getting there I promise!! My luck with internet lately has been abysmal, but fingers crossed I'll have more ready for later tonight :]

 

[sunflowerfunk]

And hey, why not, one for the road :]

Day 25 : Unexpected Encounters
-Saint-Chély-d’Aubrac-

I had been up getting blogs ready to post till 2.00am last night, so I’d allowed myself a lie-in, my alarm set for ten. I woke up at 8.37am on the dot though, again. Troubling – I was not a fan of my new normal. Against my better instincts, I chose to doze anyway, if not purely for protection from the cold. Last night, as I had gotten up to go to the bathroom, my dragon-breath had billowed out in thick clouds, the ground frosty (like, actual frost).

The instant my alarm actually went off though, I realised what a bad decision I’d made. I was sluggish as all hell, and I didn’t want to move. From my quick peek outside, all but one of my pitch-mates had left already, and it was still cold. Jeeesus. I’m not designed for this kind of weather – I need the heat to survive, like a,, lizard?

Packed and ready regardless, I left the campsite around 11.00am, chucking my rubbish as I walked out. It had been a nibbly breakfast, just polishing off anything I was almost out of; it was restock time. Pros and cons of more shops – I could carry less, but had to shop more. Unfortunately, my quick scout while following the arrows out of time yielded not much at all, so I stuck to the red and white.

Blessing or sacrifice?
Today would be mostly downhill, so after a sharp climb to the hill over Saint-Chély-d’Aubrac, the path slopes down, and stays that way. We had a new type of landscape too : thin white Birch, streaked with black ridges. They were more like stalks than trunks, spiking up from the mulch undergrowth. The light was pale and green and everywhere; I was mostly alone, passing only two pilgrims in my first two hours.

I met the two on the rise towards Les Grambrassats, where they stood still against the side of the path, looking nervous. I tried to figure out what ‘is everything okay?‘ looks like in universal charades, and got my answer with a shaky point. It seemed we had company.

A young bull had managed to get free from the fence and was casually taking up a majority of the free space between us and the rest stop. Also, it would seem one of the pilgrims had a fear of cows. Cannot imagine she’s been having the best time so far. Luckily, I love the bloody things.

I walked up behind him, slow and calm. He was a little huffy, a little nervous. Understandable – poor thing had probably not had much experience with these strange people and their big clanky bags coming right up by him. We had a bit of eye contact, and I moved behind him; a quick head turn and half spin, eyes wide – “you’re alright mate“. I get more Australian with animals, apparently. Slow and steady, he let me pass, even leaving some room for the others, and I thanked him for the trouble.

More white trees and waving canopies, and more terrible pop-punk (I couldn’t stop), and I wandered on past a ramshackle barn, all worn stone and tiles, covered in moss and ivy. A long-abandoned house followed, torn blue curtains blowing in the breeze, and L’Estrade came into view.

Clear sky – definitely a bonus

-L’Estrade-

Located just off 7km from Saint-Chérly, L’Estrade is the prescribed ‘offstage’ for this stage, with a little gîte just to the left of the path. I passed; today I wanted to walk till dark. I was aiming for Estaing, even if I started late.

Kindly, L’Estrade also has a first for me; a little pilgrim rest stop in the shade with orange juice and hot chocolate and coffee all for €1.5 each. It’s all left in large thermostats with a little box for the money, and I gladly take them up on it :]

I try the hot chocolate, but can’t figure out the thermostat thing and in trying to understand accidentally manage to take it apart revealing,, water?? So I go for the orange juice, which takes me a humiliating amount of time to realise comes out when you repeatedly press the large top button not by pouring. €1.50 lighter and significantly less hot, I carry on.

From here, the downhill really starts. You’ll go down just about 800m over the next few kilometres, and you can definitely tell. It’s pinball-lite, as I stumble down into a few trees, making my way down the rocky path. It’s clear, and warm, and you still haven’t learnt to apply sunscreen before the middle of the day.

This section began to blend a little for me, and I’m aware some of my earlier posts verge on novels, so I’ll shorten a little <33 You meet a few new cows, fall in love with them all, watch the mountains dip behind the treeline as you weave down into the temperate valley. A sign will tell you there’s only 5km to go – it’s lying. You’ve still got eight or nine, but right now you can just use that to push you on, even if towards the end you really start to second guess how long it takes to walk five kilometres.

Almost missed it completely !
You cross a river, go uphill for pretty much the first time all day, cross another river that might be the same one (?) and clear a cool old stone bridge and cross what is probably the same river again. It’s thick and green, full of mossy white trees, ones that have clearly had their limbs amputated for pilgrim convenience and now grow back stark white and stretching for the sky, white arms clearing their mossy cardigans.

Sorry, I know I said I’d keep it short, but some things deserve a bit of a ramble :]


-La Rozière-

You’re close to the first stop of the day here, or the end of your stage, depending on how you’re feeling. It’s only a few more kilometres till Saint-Côme-d’Olt, and to motivate you there’s some classic statues of Mary and a few crosses. Oh, and clean, cold water, which might be a tad more refreshing if you aren’t so biblically inclined.

I take a break here, decide to rest. I’m weirdly drained already, and I’m blaming the late start. I drink, rest my feet (without airing them, rookie mistake), eat some cashews, try to make my brain want to move. I’m still feeling tired and slow, and my pace has taken a hit. I don’t mind as much as I used to, but on these longer stretches without épiceries to refuel it gets very draining to be moving slowly.

As I rest and try to pretend movement sounds like a good idea, I’m passed by a small party of pilgrims – three, to be exact. They’re a little family, and if I’m grumpy about the pace I’m walking at, then this guy is Furious. He looks about fifteen, and his parents look much older – every time they call him back I watch him go a little more insane. I hope they let him walk ahead later.

Chickens do usually have feathers on their necks right? Am I going insane?
I’m also passed by a guy with a close-shaven head, who smiles at me all friendly. I smile back, wave him on. Then I’m passed by a bunch of very necky chickens who all look decidedly freaky and decide they can be my push towards Saint-Côme. It’s another rocky path, another downhill. I really am trying to be concise now, I swear. I daydream the whole way down, try to pass the time, and then the church spire comes into view over the ridgeline.


-Saint-Côme-d’Olt-

It is wonky as all hell. Seriously, the thing curves so much to the side it’s funny – it might overtake onion church as the best-shaped-church so far! It’s also pretty kitted out with a fancy new pilgrim rest stop; benches for sitting and reclining and a big wooden map of all the ascents and descents of the 750km, some cool art pieces that double as clothes-racks, water, bins and some toilets. Not bad, Saint-Côme.

I get cleaned up, see the guy with the almost shaved head again, nod as we pass each other then I head firmly away from the red and white. Am I going into the church? Nope. Am I exploring? Nope. Am I going to learn about the history of this stunning medieval town? Nope.

I’m going to Netto.

Saint-Côme’s wonky spire :]
On the list of things I love about France, Netto is,,, it’s there. But my god? Today it was worth the blood chilling walk along the highway, because I find the beetroot thing. Holy shit. The carrots are there too and I grab some but the beetroot. My god I was salivating at the thought.

I grab some other essentials; a 66¢ chocolate bar definitely harvested with child labour or made with actual sawdust or both, some more pesto, orangina, bread, and a little mini foccacia thing for lunch :] Pretty good haul for barely anything; Netto definitely had its upsides. The walk back towards the wonky church is much prettier than the walk to, mainly because the way I was meant go to is through gorgeous romantic classical style buildings, not the side of the D978.

Ignoring that, I followed my lovely lovely stripes while I ate my focaccia, down beautiful street after beautiful street. It felt like something out of a storybook, tall cobble towers and squat houses covered in flowering vines. I felt that heroic princes would soon arrive on noble steeds to rescue their vaguely useless heroines – they felt so close I could reach out and grab the reigns.

And then, as I cleared the river Lot, over an old gray bridge that brushed the sides of weeping willows, and I watched fish dart against the rocky bottom, I turned for one final look at the beauty of the town and – there’s camping directly on the river. For €9. Breathe, breathe, you have to make it to Estaing. But why?I entered a lengthy debate on the side of the bridge, which finally culminated in my love for swimming absolutely thrashing my competitive blokey bloke distance-based enthusiasm into a pulp.

I turned back, got halfway in and spied a tiny little sign; no swimming. Fuck. I turned tail and went back across the bridge. Frugality was back, bruised and bloody and all. €9 to not swim, not a chance. The way out, cruelly, follows the Lot. And it’s so pretty and clear and why would they ever ban swimming in it – yeah sure the industrial dam could flood it in a second, but who cares?!

I wandered on asphalt, following the curves of the water, the gentle sweep of the willow leaves in the wind, the fish weaving along beside me. The asphalt leads me to a bridge, which I veer left of, to begin my climb for the day. For every down, there is an up and all that. For some reason, this climb felt fucking brutal. You gain 250-odd meters in a kilometre, and your calves burn. Maybe it was just because I’d already done a days walk, and was just convinced I could do another few hours, or maybe there was a reason this stretch had it’s own entire walking day, despite only being 7.8km long.

Either way, I was pooped. Sweaty, gross, ready to go back (never). I went past a cool old abandoned farmhouse, which greatly improved my mood, as did shitty Supernatural-soundtrack rock, but I was just so drained. At every bend, I felt so sure this would be the last one, and it just never w a s. Tricky spot, because I definitely could not sleep anywhere here – woods, and all that. The trees were too close together, no real kipping opportunity.

But then, I cleared the trees and found myself in.,,. a quarry? The hill-mountain (where does the split happen?) I was climbing was a shell – it’s insides spilling out over itself. The rocks towered, and far below me the crumbs of a time past lay in the gravel. And up to my right was,,, Mary??


-Espalion-

To be honest, my grasp on biblical figures is close from tight, and any woman I assumed was Mary, purely because she’s the only woman I ever hear mentioned. Unless I’m missing some cool Goliath-style women, which would be a shame. Anyway, maybe-Mary is a big old statue overlooking the valley, and she’s,, a little creepy to see from far away because she really looks person sized before you actually get to her.

Oh and Espalion? Fucking massive. For the first time since Le Puy, a place on the map takes up my full line of sight, which feels crazy after so long without. It’s pretty – I can see the massive church from here – but fills me with stress. But, at the very least, I could see benches already; right by the river :]

I’d given up on getting to Estaing around the time I finished the climb, it just wouldn’t happen in time tonight, and I wanted a nice place to eat – the shores of the river Lot sounded perfect! I wandered on down the final decline of the day, stumbling a little in the cold, before eventually emerging at the start of a massive tennis training centre. The French could not get enough of tennis; I saw big courts and centres everywhere!

Mary (maybe)
One final asphalt path, this time along the banks of the Lot, and finally, I was here. Public park benches, oh how I’ve missed you <33 And with toilets right nearby – Espalion was shaping up to be quite perfect already. I set my things down, went to the bathroom, got changed into my less rank shirt, hung it off the back of the bench to dry.

I was passed by a man and managed to have an entire little small talk thing without needing to give up and resort to miming, which was cool :] Granted, it was just the standard ‘how long did you walk?’/’what’s your name?’/’where are you staying tonight?’ but hey. The last one was a little dicey, so I said I’d probably keep walking or find somewhere, seeing as the campsite was closed. What he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him!

He bid me goodnight and walked down the treelined path into the centre ville, so I took out my food. I was beyond excited for beetroot – I’d been looking forward to it all afternoon !! As I unpacked my little utensils and grabbed my pocketknife, a new couple arrived and sat at the table closest to me. A first date, if I understood correctly. They were very cute, and chose a great one – picnic by the river at sunset. Fucking nailing the dating thing <33

:]
I was also passed by Closely Shaven again, on his way to a gîte, presumably, and he laughed as I waved, again. A new regular was definitely a positive :] And then, as I took the first bite of my beetroot – mentally screaming at how freakishly delicious it was – I was passed by anotherfamiliar face. It was a camper, this one from Saint-Chély last night. Another pace to match. His dog seemed to remember me too, and she was adorable – a puppy, despite her size, and he was attempting to train her as he walked. Mammoth task – good luck!

He asked me where I would sleep, and I told him I’d figure something out, and off he went. It was nippy now, as the sun began to dip below the buildings, and I tugged on some extra layers. Back to my beetroot and stale baguette, I cannot express in words how much I enjoyed them. I need to learn how to make it – it seems to just be beetroot, red onion and vinegar? And it tastes like Heaven.

Still just trying to eat, I’m passed again – this time from the opposite direction – by the first guy, now armed with paper grocery bags. He sees me, in different, warmer clothes, looking quite comfortable, and laughs, raises an eyebrow conspiratorially – “maybe,, you even sleep here?”.

I’m jokey, raising my hands, “Maybe, maybe.”

He seems to enjoy it, and tells me to “wait, wait!”

He rustles around in his bags, draws out a handful of,, loose black grapes?

Hell yeah.

I thank him, take them. Mmmm grapes. He laughs again, hands me another few, tells me he’ll check in on me in the morning, and he’s back through the campsite gates.

Grinning like an idiot, I put my earbuds back in to the part of Awake My Soul playing, and my grinning increased tenfold. Nothing like a bit of wrow-wrow-wrooow guitar and nostalgia to punch you in the face and remind you you’re happier than you’ve ever been at any other point in time.

Somewhere here, I clock that, for the first time since starting, a capital s italicised bold sunset is happening. One of the big ones. And so I grabbed my hat, newly full of grapes, and walked across the path to enjoy some dessert before my dinner. The separation and spacing of dessert and dinner seemed archaic, the principles old-fasioned; are we not stronger united? Do we not gain more from mixing and mingling despite our differences? Does this world need any more degrees of separation than it already does?

All that is to say that I’m sitting on the grass eating grapes and knock-off oreos, having a great time. Beat that.

And so I sat there, on the grass, music playing softly, as the clouds turned yellow, then orange, then deep, deep rosy pink, great big vibrant streaks in the watercolour sky. It was fucking beautiful – I got the Chaumont feeling again. Happy, and light, and alive. It wasn’t often I got the trifecta down; I wasn’t taking it for granted tonight. I waited until the pinks and reds began to turn to gray, then returned to my bench, which, as I now found out, was directly under the fluorescent lights. Sweet. I’d move when the couple left – for now, it gave me light to write.

Now that’s a fucking sunset!
After a time, once I’d finished my dinner and packed up again, dog guy came back. He seemed incredulous to see me, and asked if I found a gîte – I replied that tonight, the park would be my gîte. He laughed, asked me if I was sure; wouldn’t it be cold? Yes, so fucking cold.

“Nah, I’ll be fine :]”

Cocky prick !!

He said goodnight, and that he, too, would see me in the morning – towards town he went.

I moved to a bench out of the light, got comfortable and scribbled for awhile. Only so much you can write when your brain is liquid though – I just wanted to sleep. Finally, the couple left, his jacket around her shoulders. Very sappy, I unrolled the sleeping bag and got comfortable. It’s been awhile since we met on a bench under the stars – not since before Le Puy! Fingers crossed tonight goes a little better than that one, or we’ll see each other again far too early,,,

---

Day 25 – September 14th

Saint-Chély-d’Aubrac to Espalion

27.1km

~ 157.2km total

€11.80

~ €174.38 total

(521.9km combined)

(€803.61 combined)

 

[Simperegrina]

So enjoyable

Thank you @sunflowerfunk

 

[Anniesantiago]

Loving your posts and wonderful photos!

 

[sunflowerfunk]

Day 26 : I Gotta Daaaance (Wrow-Arou-Wrooooww)
-Espalion-

I slept almost uninterrupted, only once getting up to get water and have the absolute shit scared out of me by this creepy fucker right here hiding behind the wall to the potable tap.

Freak!
Sweet fucking Christ. Why would they put that there?! Heart POUNDING I walked back through the dark to my bench, waiting for him to start running after me. Luckily for me, he stayed a statue. A few hours later, I woke up for real; and it was,, dark? Or raining? Or both? Or neither? Was that smoke???

It was not. It was, though, the thickest fucking fog I’ve ever seen in my life. My bench was about three metres from the closest tree, and it had vanished. I couldn’t see a thing. I could hear cars, and a check of the time revealed it was about 7.00am, so I knew people would be arriving soon – but what!? I rolled up my sleeping bag and repacked everything so I didn’t look too obvious, then I went straight to the water.

It was clearer here, the branches of the weeping willows opposite reaching through like spectres. Bright purple flowers dotted the grass, so bright it seemed indecent – could they not tell today was muted? And then, who should appear out of the fog but grape guy, who takes one look at me and bursts out laughing.

“You did sleep here!!!”

A little laugh, a wave, and we part. I do hope to see him again :]

Beautiful :]
A quick visit to the toilet seat made solidly of ice and back to my pack – I have people to see (not), places to be (yes). So I begin my wander, damp and cold, like all good ones do. Past some cool street art, past the creepy statue guy again, and past so much fog. After taking roughly forty photos of the town emerging through the gray, I turn the corner and almost run face first into a rack of sausages. It’s market day, and my god.

Big wooden slats stacked high, each nestling precious cargo; guavas, nectarines, grapes, plums, peaches, bananas, kiwis, apricots, pineapples. Any fruit I’ve ever seen is there, sandwiched between butchers’ stalls, meat strung on metal racks, giant slabs and tiny little baby portions for people to try. Fromagers’ populate the corners, peddling massive cheese wheels aged for years, hard shells of mould, with softer, smaller rounds of camembert, brie, and one Craig told me was his favourite in Chaumont. There’s some crazy looking ones, mottled green and red, and the smell is,,, intense. Artists too, tables with mishmash cards and bags, setting up pins and badges in tiny shelves. A man selling fresh seafood takes up most of the far corner, between me and the bridge, and I can’t help but inhale as I pass; it smells like Christmas. Prawns and snapper, stacked in those same blue bins, ice on the cold laminate floor in Ballina or Byron or wherever the year took us.

I’m halfway across the bridge when a kind man stops me, points me back with his cane. I’ve missed an arrow – I get to keep going through the market :] I thank him, turn back into the slowly swelling crowd, past the not-Christmas-Christmas stall and into the hubbub. The first customers are perusing, loud and French, hollering greetings across streets and weaving in to their friends, kisses on cheeks and claps on backs, blokey roaring. The bakers have begun to trade, and they earn themselves the biggest tables; not that it’s enough. Rounds of bread, seeded and deep brown, scored with flowers and dusted with flour sit on the corners, holding together the golden croissants, buttery and glossy, the pain au chocolates so fresh they bleed onto the white plastic, dripping down. Pretzels and focaccia bites and sourdough and cheesy fromage squares and apricot turnovers and danishes and twists that smell like vanilla and cardamom, baguettes and flutes and pain sit slotted in large barrels by the side. I’m just about floating with the smell. Mmmmm fresh baking. God.

One of the coolest installations I’ve seen <33
But I pass it by – I don’t trust my French enough yet – swearing that the next one I pass, I’ll get some goodies and eat fresh bread by the water. The warm lights fight out the gray, and the further away I get, the more it glows; all bobbing heads and fairylight strands. Beautiful :]

Leaving Espalion is bittersweet; combined, it’s given me my most beautiful night and morning so far. It deserves a better send-off than the back roads out, but that’s what it gets. The fog helps, lays languid over the houses, gives it the feeling of the unknown, of pure earliness – despite the fact it’s already close to 8.00am. I follow the distant outlines of two pilgrims in front of me, listen to the clicking of the trekking poles to tell me where to go. I know there’s three behind me too; their clicks come quick, and constant. Click-click-click-click-click-click. Six poles, a disjointed titanium insect, a second. Without us, the streets are silent.

A short uphill stretch, then you follow the road. It’s something special, this fog. It refuses to budge, clings to everything it touches; I eat the last of the grapes as I walk, spit out the seeds – they vanish into the abyss. And still, it’s just me and the clicking. I can’t see anyone anymore. A car comes out of nowhere, white lights pulsing, swerves around me, disappears a second later. I press as close to the thorny bushes as I can; then I’m in a tunnel. Keep left, always, pray no cars come through. They don’t.

I’m passed by an older guy here, who tells me my raincover pocket is open, and I pause to fix it as he goes on ahead at breakneck speed. Seriously, fastest walker I’ve seen so far – he rivals Kath but like,, he’s just walking, not intentionally fast at all. I’m intimidated.

From here, there’s a path again, beside the road – breathe easy. You follow the gravel till you reach a cemetery, and I can tell you with 100% certainty that they’re entirely designed to look sick in the fog. Looming crosses, fake flowers faded. Incredible. From here, it’s only a few minutes till you reach the still-very-much-closed town of Saint-Pierre-de-Besseuéjouls, where the true climb begins. I pass the older Speed Demon here, as he reties his shoes, and begin to make my way up.

Fog in the valleys
This one is also a little brutal; short but sharp. Speed Demon overtakes me less than a third of the way up, as I pant against a tree. Fair play. I chase the sound of his clicks until he escapes my earshot, which I’ll pretend isn’t because of my pace, but rather because I just super casually stopped walking because holy shit?? The fog still isn’t gone – at least, not for the valleys. It’s been clear here for awhile, sunlight peeking through the leaves. But down below, the blanket stays snug – even at 9.00am, with full sun.

I’ll skip the finer details of the next five kilometres solely because they’re verging on repetition (I would never), but I will give future me some dot points to help him remember;

⁃ you make it to the rest stop where you originally thought you might spend the night, and it’s an exposed field (great for sunset views, not much else)

⁃ to get to Trédou, it’s a zig-zag wander through a cute little forest, then you pass One building and go by the church and you’re back on the road

⁃ after a little while, the road splits and you follow the longest straight stretch you’ve probably walked since starting (a kilometre with no turns? Are you crazy?

⁃ You get to what you think is Verrières, but is actually Les Camps – still pretty, but it means you’ve got another kilometre till almost-Estaing (ouch)

⁃ When you get to actual Verrières, you notice a pilgrim rest stop, and, for the first time, stop to read the menu (maybe you’ll buy something???), but Speed Demon will come barrelling out and tell you they have great coffee and you’ll get competitive and try to race him

⁃ He stops by the bridge to take a lovely photo you probably should have also taken and BOOM you’re ahead

⁃ Roadwalking roadwalking yada yada yada

⁃ One more tiny climb filled with the flowers you saw on the highest point of the Gebennensis, a little nostalgia, and a descent to Mumford and Sons

⁃ Is that,,, is that a fucking castle?


-Estaing-

Yeah. Estaing has a castle. It’s probably the church too, but it has a castle. Gorgeous, and cool, but how are there just,,, so many castles in France. Why don’t we get castles???? All those colonising bastards couldn’t even bring over the castle-making skills for their convicts ?? Pah!

France is definitely not lacking in the castles department!
The way follows a wind in the river Lot, then sends you up and to the left, directly away from Estaing. I choose to go into town though; I really need food. I’m back to cashews and pesto and,,, not much else. Plus I need something to eat the carrots with! I don’t find much, but the épicerie has some cheap shitty pain au chocolates and ‘aussie lemonade style’ Monster, so I buy those (sorry father – I need to know what that tastes like). And a baguette, while I’m at it. I get handed the crustiest baguette I’ve ever seen in my life. I think the actual bread part consistutes maybe an eighth of it – the rest is just crunch. Jesus.

On I go, with a pain au chocolate for the road; my true lunch break is two odd kilometres from here, where I’m told there’s a rest stop right by the river. I’ll be honest, I’ve passed several major rivers since starting, and at the moment, the Lot seems to be the grossest. Sorry Lot. At least the fishers seem to love it – I can see five from the bridge alone, drifting around in their little kayaks.

As I leave Estaing behind, I smile at the pilgrimness of the place – this is the thing I do love about company. I wander by a playground near a pool, both shut, and see the outline of a tent in the grass, with a rugged man smoking ciggies while drying every item of clothing he seems to own. Someone else is clipping their toenails on the church stairs, grumbling about the light from the stained glass. My close-shaven friend from the other day is brushing his teeth in front of the water fountain, and he smiles at me in recognition, white and bubbly.

Smiling to myself, I rejoin Speed Demon as he turns off towards Golinhac, the end goal for today. It’s another 14km from here – I’m just under halfway for today, 13km in. Not feeling too bad; maybe even a little overconfident, if such a thing existed for a teenager. As it would transpire, the rest stop by the river just means a table in the vicinity of the river, and sorta smells – I think I caught the Lot on a bad day.

And then a little lightbulb goes off in my head, and I remember that the entirety of France is in a mass drought because of the whole, y’know, climate change thing. Awkwaaard. So sorry France I will stop teasing your rivers!! Our droughts just look very different. Regardless, I move on, determined to find somewhere pretty to enjoy my lunch.

That somewhere pretty,,,, sort of arrives? To get to it though, all I have to do is scale a mountain. Pssh baby stuff. Toothbrush guy (Close Shaven has a new name) passes me halfway up the climb, and any shred of my that would possibly want to race him has long since curled up and died because this one fucking Sucks. It’s 600m of elevation over 3km, and my calves are jelly (jello, again <33), and the wind is being very helpful and trying to shove me against the trees and take my hat. Not a chance wind, not a chance.

Gripping both sides of the sunhat with the type of strength that comes solely from desperation, I gasp and heave my way to the top that isn’t the top because there’s one last climb and Jesus Christ why does so much of France’s natural beauty have to involve mountains?? Pros and cons though, because halfway up this one I meet a lovely woman from Belgium, who, thankfully, speaks German, and we talk the whole way up.

If nothing else, being Australian is a killer conversation starter – nothing excites the Europeans more.

“You like to surf?” They ask, eyes shining like a puppy.

And then you (metaphorically) kick them and say that you don’t like surfing actually and then they look wounded and it’s all very funny when you’re exhausted.

Anyway, she doesn’t bring up surfing, which I’m grateful for, and instead we talk about school and the heat and not much in particular. But it makes the climb go faster – I take a photo of her at the top. Together, we trek the last 200m to the rest stop and collapse; her on the bench and me in the tree roots. I fill up water, air my feet. She hangs her clothes out to dry, jokes that they finally might smell good. It’s quite nice.

Not a chance, I’m afraid!
There’s a dog who really wants my food, and will not leave me alone for anything, so much so that the next people to arrive ask if he’s mine. Not likely. Speaking of the next people; they arrive quickly. Two French-Canadians and who else but Speed Demon. He nods at me, waves. The four of them converse in French, which I’m happy about because it means a little pause in conversation for me. I’m more of a micro-dosing human interaction type of guy, and I like to eat in peace.

As I nibble on the Worlds Crunchiest Baguette dipped in pesto, savouring my final three cherry tomatoes, I flip through the book, thinking about where to end up tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after- okayyy book closed no more thinking! I’ve made at least six seperate “””plans””” of when I’d be finished since leaving Le Puy, and they changed daily. No use worrying about it yet, I know, but I always just wanted to guess, to figure it all out.

I took instead to nostalgia, hopefully, and tried the ‘aussie lemonade style’ energy drink. It was, and I do mot say this lightly, fucking delicious. Aussie style lemonade just means solo, I guess, and oh man cold solo after a long walk? It was perfect. Probably not a thing I’d get again, given that one can cost the same as like a litre of juice, but I’m glad I tried it. Now I can add solo to the list of things I’m craving <33

After a few more minutes, I pack up, leave quietly. I don’t want to disturb the conversation so I don’t say goodbye, and I regret it – I liked the lovely Belgian lady. I was hoping I’d see her again, but she was stopping a few kilometres before me, so the chances were low. Damn :[ I walk up the last of the hill, following the bouncing backpack of the pilgrim in front. I was getting used to the people now, I think – staying in campsites made it far easier to recharge.

The towns have definitely had practice appealing topilgrims!

-Fonteilles-

She and I split ways at Fonteilles, where there was a gîte that looked very comfortable,,, but not for me. Plus, I was ahead of Speed Demon – I couldn’t stop now! My enthusiasm was starting to wane just slightly now, my feet starting to feel the endless thud-thud-thud. Ouch. I needed something bright to push me along, some delusory force to make me feel too bouncy to care.

I needed the Beach Boys.

I slowed – not stopped, we’re still racing – quickly downloaded the best few songs. And then I was fucking off, shittily dancing all the way, wavy arms and weird steps that definitely probably fucked up my spine more but ignore it. It was summer and childhood and sticky hands from that long-discontinued smartie ice-cream push pop thing, blue skies and red earth, past Sphynx Roc Cafe and down into Nimbin, or out to Cabba, 50¢ popping candy from the Uki general, those awful pink and blue lollipops that weren’t really lollipops they sold at every public swimming pool I’ve ever been in.

I was reminiscing, and reminiscing hard. It was impossible not to – I fucking loved the Beach Boys. Jaunty little steps, a few more corners, the last push. So busy flapping about I didn’t notice that the guy in front of me had a 360* camera filming the whole fucking thing. Then I was moving much quicker for a very different reason.


-Golinhac-

Pure embarrassment (and a little dididleeleedee guitar) sent me coasting towards the first few houses of Golinhac at around 3.15pm – eons early. I was greeted with a white horse, a beautiful garden of gardenias being picked by a beautiful woman who smiled at me, and an old guy in a mechanics going ‘OUUUEEYYY’ as I walked past. A strong start, that’s for sure.

I followed the signs for the campsite, misread a few but ended up at reception. One pitch, €8.40. Thankyou lovely French man with Very Tight Pants. I set up quickly, leaving most of my stuff outside while I went to wash my clothes. I needed them to dry, I missed dry clothes s o bad. Hung them out, prayed, set up fully. Tried to do taxes, but the ATO hates me. Jokes on them, they could never hate me as fully and borderline violently as I hate them. I gave up – my SIM made it impossible to call and fix anything. Add it to the list. Christ.

Fantastic advice !!
It was getting cloudy, and my clothes had no hope of drying, so time to fork over €3 and dry them – oh? I pressed the wrong button, and the machine starts without the money. You win some, you lose some I guess. Went into the bathroom to plug in my powerbank and glanced up in the mirror to find the guy using the urinal making the most crazy intense eye contact I’ve ever seen – it felt rude breaking it. Even though, to reiterate, he’s in a fucking urinal. Maybe I just haven’t got this whole being-a-man thing down yet, but that seems like the last possible place I would ever want to look another human directly in the eye. And, bonus points; as I went to leave, I passed Speed Demon. No shot – we smile in recognition. I’m never going to see him again, not a chance. I regret another almost-goodbye.

Anyway, besides that, it was a rather fun night. I was sandwiched between two tents, and one of them I recognised from Saint-Chély, which was nice. I sat inside with the outer layer open, just watching the clouds roll on in. Being somewhat at the top of the hill, Golinhac gets a fucking beating in the wind, and my tent has a few folding-in-half moments that concerned me just a bit, but it’s all fine. I wait till the dusk steals the sky, till all that’s left are camper-van lights flickering through the slits in their window-shields.

It was peaceful, bar the barrage. I loved storms – I was hoping this one would break before I succumbed to the comfort of my sleeping bag, but it wasn’t meant to be. I hope you have better luck with yours – I hope the anticipation is worth it :]

---

Day 26 – September 15th

Espalion to Golinhac

27.1km (again)

~ 184.3km total

€16.25

~ €190.63 total

(549.0km combined)

(€819.86 combined)

 

[sunflowerfunk]

Day 27 : Struggling Actor Recites the Same Monologue He's Been Repeating for Ten Years Expecting Something to Change
-Golinhac-

I woke up a little later than normal, somewhere around nine; last one up, as per usual. The toilets are,, shut, weirdly, which complicates things, but I digress. It’s a quick job of packing up now, I’ve had my practice – long gone are the mornings of struggling for minutes on end with my mat. Speaking of, I’m about 90% sure I’m getting rid of the bloody thing the second I find a new outdoor store on the way.

Leftover laundry someone will miss !!
I have a bit of a last minute wash of a pair of socks and a pair of undies, hang them off my pack, then rinse (literally) and repeat with my towel. Now all I need is sunlight, please. On my way out, I notice a tiny épicerie tucked away, and visit – there’s nothing that particularly appeals though, so I move along, albeit slowly. It’s a shorter day than the last few today, just over 20km, so there’s no need to rush. Plus, I’ve developed a fun new (English) pain; the top of my right foot absolutely screams whenever it touches my boot. Rightio. Loosened (too much gravel for bare feet today, even with a shorter day), I carry on into the centre of town, where I see a familiar haircut craning up at the church.

Belgian lady!! She’s back!! I’m so late she caught up with me!! I finally get my goodbye, as she waves me along.

“Bon Chemin!” is swapped, and she dips inside the church.

As she does, other familiar faces show themselves; the two men who disappeared into the fog in front of me post-Espalion. I follow the shells bouncing from their packs until they get confused, then they’re forced to follow my wet laundry. I get the feeling I had the better end of the deal.

Just a little dramatic,,,,,
As I walked, I realised today was the 16th – one day post the awards. If you’ll indulge me, pretty much the entire rest of today becomes one anxious spiral that thinly veils my unintentional bragging – I hate reading it too. Sorry in advance, but occasionally future me needs to remember I’m still a little (lot) insufferable.

Last year, I’d done Extension 2, a writing course, for my HSC. It was fun, and I’d equally hated and loved it, and it had sort of,, resparked me, I guess. I had adored writing when I was younger, but by the time I started the course I hadn’t written in years – and by the end, I’d written a 6,000 word piece I didn’t entirely hate; pretty big for me.

I’d somehow ended up getting shortlisted for the NSW Literary Awards, then actually got in. My lame little not-the-worst piece was going to be published in a compilation of the highest rated works from across the state. Bit fucking mental actually. And they’d happened yesterday – I couldn’t see what I got, but I’d gotten it. And the book was out. Ohhhh man.

I was stupidly happy. It still didn’t feel real. I’d spent so much time scribbling; in dusty buses, in alleyways behind my work, at the beach with my back against the Pandanas palms, at cold classroom tables before the birds started singing, anywhere a thought struck. And it had paid off. It was, I cannot stress this enough, insane. As I made my way through the pine forest, I couldn’t stop smiling. The second I got a hint of reception I was going to buy it and absolutely inhale it.

But that wouldn’t be for awhile yet – for now, I had another 7km until Espeyrac. They trickled past as I met new characters, vivid as the lovers in Jongieux le Haut. They jumped around in my mind, banged on doors, tried to get out. I was mentally scribbling as fast as I could, but they were slipping out of reach – voice notes it was. Seventeen and a half minutes of straight ramble as I try to pinpoint who they were, what they wanted. I was passed by two cyclists who laughed at me, and only then did I clock I looked a little bonkers. Ahh well, happens to the best of us.


-Esyprec-

I was still rambling when I cleared the forest and emerged at the épicerie and church in quick succession, and only then did I stop because there were Actually People There. Some peach yoghurt, a tomato and a twister icey-pole, a kind you’ve never seen before; yellow and red. What a strange country.

Hail Mary full of grace, etcetera
I beeline for the closest table, buy a digital copy of the book. I’m so hyped. And I do inhale the first story. It’s brilliant – a retelling of the night the Romanovs are shot, from a mesh of perspectives. The entire time, my excitement is slowly mounting; I’m mouth open smiling, icey-pole melting down my hands – I chuck it away, too enthralled to eat. Mine is next, and I skip it, having read it more than enough times over the past year. The next one is brilliant, and the next and the next and the next. I’m in awe; how do people write like this? They’re jaw-dropping – I fucking love words.

And then, with a soft shiver, the wind changes; a sucker punch from Cynic, and my Optimist falls. Ohhhh shit. I don’t deserve to be in it. Imposter syndrome kicks in, full force, and I’m free-falling. It’s been a second since I’ve had this, and I sort of forget what to do. Keep moving? I pack up, try to outwalk it. Not a shot, I’m afraid, because from here it gets rough, so excuse the self-pity.

The stretch between Esyprec and Sénergues is just under 3km, and it goes by relatively fast; I’m blaring music and trying to get out of my head. But my legs are carrying it; I’m already wrecked.


-Sénergues-

I collapse in the pilgrim rest shelter, try to eat. I feel ill, just absolutely stewing in anxiety. This is so fucking stupid, I think to myself, but that only sets them off more. Jesus Christ. For the first time, I genuinely do not want to keep walking at all. I’m resorting to the classics; I just want a dark room away from everyone where I can reset for a few days. Unfortunately, that’s not exactly possible.

The church in Senergues
I miss my bed with it’s creaky springs that dig into your back and the pillows that are always too cold. I miss comfort, even when it bordered on unhealthy. I’m dangling over The Pit in my stomach, filled with all the other anxieties and worries and insecurities that get stuck to me like some big metaphorical lint-roller. Every one of them sticks, and mounts, and I feel horrific. I need the dark, sleep, I need to be bad at existing for a little.

I had a process for dealing with myself, one that couldn’t be interrupted; I’d never not been able to start the process. I didn’t have my normal fixes, didn’t have my normal rules. But, to my credit, I also had something I didn’t usually; a goal. I’m going to get to Conques today, and after that we’d see.

I got up, reading more, in love with the words but feeling so mean and jealous. I felt like a child. Gross. Reluctantly, I kept going, brain yelling the entire time. I do try to make it clearer with the characters, but eventually Fear and Optimism and Enthusiasm and the Cynic all meld into one loud argument that never ends, never quiets.

The next ten kilometres were hell. I was glum, and in an absolutely rotten mood; sad, and angry that I was sad, and sad that I was angry, and angry I was angry. All that testosterone doesn’t leave much room for more than two emotions at once, it seems. I’d been doing great the past few weeks – I guess it was fair to have a bit of a shit one. I don’t remember scenery, I don’t remember songs. It was just a ‘one foot in front of the other, don’t look up, don’t think, just get there’ kind of afternoon.


-Conques-

And then, I got there. A sign tells me the brief but gory history of the twelve-year-old who was beheaded here, giving the Chapels their names (Foy). Lovely stuff. The houses are ancient, medieval. Pretty streets, pretty gifts, souvenirs and knick knacks spilling out of shops like patrons spill from delicious smelling restaurants. It’s beautiful – and I can’t bring myself to explore. I need to sleep, need to hide away, curl up and not exist till morning. I’m about 70% sure tomorrow will be a rest day – I need a little but of stewing time.

The first view of Conques :]
I follow the streets down, down, down, leave the beauty behind. The campsite is all the way out and to the right, and when the lady at reception asks if I’d like to share a pitch or be alone, I’m so relieved I almost tear up. I’m the furthest pitch away from everyone, and it’s perfect. There’s no internet again, and I couldn’t care less – a shower later and I’m ready for bed.

I’m wide awake about five minutes later, when I clock today is Saturday, and I have no food. And I will continue to have no food until I move. The shops here are shut, and there isn’t another one until Decasville. Shit. I walk back over – there was a tiny épicerie in the reception – but no luck, they’re shut. I’m going to have to pay for dinner here. Ohhh man. I reserve a spot, doze until it’s time, try not to panic over every tiny little thing. Fail to do so. Dinner time!

I resign myself to bad overpriced food, and trust campsite pizza again. It’s one of two vegetarian options, and the other one translates to ‘bowl’, which doesn’t give me enough information to go with. I’m mentally prepared to feel so ill, but it arrives and. Dude. It’s the best pizza I’ve ever eaten in my life. Heavy on the dairy, even for me, but incredible. Creme base and goats cheese and Some Other Cheese that tastes amazing, with burnt onions and tomatoes, topped with spicy honey. Holy shit.

I pay €2.50 for weak Nesquik, and the guy taking my order laughs at me. Leave me and my hot chocolate alone, Guy – I’m fragile, apparently. I watch the clouds roll in, eat my food, drink my water. I won’t say I’m cured, but I will say maybe eating not much of anything and barely drinking had a slight effect on my mood. I’m still sad and worried, but it’s easier with the stars out.

I (almost) listen to my body, don’t finish the pizza. More Big Moments hidden in the mediocre, fun times. Today I don’t really clock it though, just crawl into bed. It’s hot, and I’m itchy and I can’t regulate, and I try really hard not to have a little freak – and I don’t. Pros and cons. The stars really come out, and I sleep with the outside tent door open, so I can watch them blink, and I feel incredibly alone for the first time in a long time. It’s been a weird day.

---

Day 27 – September 16th

Golinhac to Conques

22.8km

~ 207.1km total

€32.30

~ €222.93 total

(571.8km combined)

(€852.16 combined)

 

[sunflowerfunk]

Day 28 : I Swear I Get Less Grouchy Soon
-Conques-

I wake up more tired than I was before I went to sleep, which, as far as sleeping goes, isn’t usually the order. The idea of a rest day is calling to me – more sleep, and time to sort myself out. I debate while I go to the bathroom, brush my teeth, decide in favour. I go back to the reception, grab some bikkies and carbs for the road (all they have are crackers help), retrieve the baguette I ordered yesterday, and then I’m on my way.

Wait, huh? Feet before brain, I guess. I packed up, tent still covered in dew. And my clothes were cold. Man. I was thinking in tiny full stop sentences – no rambles to lift my spirits. I was a wet tissue on the sidewalk, all gross and sopping and sad. Jesus Christ get over yourself.

The upside was I saw a few familiar faces, namely the two who had been beside me in Golinhac; Green Tent Woman and Forclaz Girl. Well, technically Forclaz Girl was from even earlier, in Saint-Chérly, but I wasn’t going to nitpick,,

Oh, and here’s your daily Gross Thing; I opened a can of Coke expecting a fizz and some bubbles to kickstart my day and there was,,, no hiss? Seeing zero problem with this at all, I took the biggest gulp of what I can only describe as water and the hair that gets caught in the shower drain. I almost puked – but I spat it all out. Long, thick, somehow hairy strands of coke had solidified in this can that had been sitting here for god knows how many years. Gagging, I tried to calm myself down, not puke. [AN : It’s a day later, and every time I think about the sensation, I involuntarily double over and retch. I don’t think I’m ever going for Coke from a can again]

Always good to get a reminder??
Less than two minutes from the campsite, I stop and earnestly consider turning back. I don’t want to walk, I feel like shit, etcetera etcetera etcetera. But the thought of leaving and coming back is so stupid to me that I keep going. 1.2km in, after the climb to Chapel Saint-Foy, I collapse on the rocks nearby. I’m out of water – I forgot to refill. For fucks sake. I’m really grumpy today, and my internal voice is being shockingly mean to everyone I meet.

Stubbornness can be a virtue if you move past the downsides; I push on. I continue to feel like shit for the rest of the day, but I don’t stop. For the first time, I purposefully take a variant trail. This one is technically the ‘historical’ route, so it doesn’t count – with the bonus that it’s 2.5km shorter. Whatever gets me to bed quickest.

I get lost a few times, which does not improve my mood, and miss the turn-off for the variant, which actively tanks it. Also; I’m out of food. Fully. There’s still so long to Decazeville, maybe I should just curl up by the side of the road with my sleeping bag and restart in the morning.

It’s all long endless roads and asphalt, and I don’t look up to see the views once. I’m on a mission, and I just need to get to rest and safety. After an eternity, I reach the first houses of,, Noailhac?


-Noailhac-

What the fuck? I didn’t miss the turn for the variant – so where was it? Choosing not to question the finer things, I duck into the tiny épicerie tacked onto the restuarant, spend so long deciding the lady tries to pick for me. I grab a juice apparently not for sale, but she hands me like a solid litre and a half of guava juice and goes “DRINK!” so I take her up on that. A tomato and two hard boiled eggs later, I’m walking out, €6 lighter. Not too bad.

Let’s play: Will The Pilgrim And His Pack Fit? (Barely)
The next kilometre and a half feels so easy it’s almost a joke – wander up to the chapel (another Saint Roch, they love this guy), pass the houses and abandoned farm gear. And then I’m there, and there’s benches, and in an instant I’m on the floor with my shoes off making a pesto egg sandwich and everything feels okay again.

There’s sun, and wind, and I tug my jumper on for warmth, my hair whipping into my eyes. Eat, drink your guava juice, breathe, take a fucking chill pill. Be glad the French know how to nail a boiled egg (rock solid, cooked for so long it’s grey on the outside), enjoy your food. Listen to the Beach Boys and tell yourself everything is going to be okay. There’s steps to the processes, don’t you know :]

After a little too long, I set off again, bolstered by the jumpy guitar. It’s another eight kilometres till La Combe, and between now and then even the guitar begins to drone, my mind just a solid chunk of empty space as I just try to make it.


-La Combe-

And I do make it, overjoyed because I think it’s Decazeville. It most definitely is not; but I’m in the final stretch. This final stretch is active nightmare for already-half-dead me, it’s slopes the enemy. My teenage angst is going buckwild, all whiny and whingy, “I hate this“, “How much longer“, “Are we there yet“. Sometimes I actively felt like I was babysitting some extraordinarily sad child.

I fill up some water, finally; my lack of drinking has probably also not helped my mood. Also, I’m sunburnt. I’m having a hot mess of a day, and I feel scattered and I cannot wait to get there. Except, naturally I do. A kilometre down the road there’s a little green park area for pilgrims to rest and I take them up on it. Shoes off, jumper on, phone on to charge; it’s nap time. Time to get out of my head and into,, bed?

Friendly waymarkers :]
I close my eyes to birds flitting in the blue, soft pillowy clouds meandering by. I open them an hour later to dark, uniform gray. Ohhh fuck. A quick check of the weather confirms the worst – it’s about to storm. I’m still two hours from the closest campsite, and I do not feel like sleeping in a room with other people tonight. I’m up, and gone. Fuck.


-Decazeville-

I barrel downhill towards Decazeville, finally clocking why all the pilgrims stopped weirdly early. They’d been smart and done the bare minimum: checked the weather. I pass a grandfather/granddaughter duo watching the clouds who are exceptionally adorable, but there’s no time to sweetly wander along thinking about making pasta with mine or any of the other cute thoughts I could have – it’s going to fucking rain.

In hindsight, this panic only half makes sense. Yes, I wanted to camp tonight, but I also totally could have just,, run by a gîte. And I did, in fact, several! But I was hell-bent on sleeping outside, campsite or no campsite so goddamn it we were going to find one. Oh yeah. Have I mentioned yet that Decazeville doesn’t have a campground?

Yeahhh the place is lovely, and has an incredible big old cemetery that takes up half a hill that I would love to explore, but no campground. Which means I reluctantly have to bid Decazeville goodbye barely ten minutes after I meet it. I’m insistent on beating the storm, even if it means powerwalking up another sharp little ascent back out of the valley. It’s getting windy, and I can smell rain, but it can’t catch me, it won’t.

When the ground levels out a little, I meet someone. A very small someone. A stick-sized someone – though, no, that’s too generous. He’s like,, y’know when you cook fettuccine? How if you forget to put a little oil in the water before you add the pasta in, they’ll clump together in little ropes, five thick or so? He’s like that with teeth.

I’d seen another whipsnake a few days ago, coming out of Esyprec, but that one had fled into the bushes the second it heard my footsteps. Not this guy. He was brave, rearing up and leaping at me. Or, trying to (again, fettuccine sized). He was so small he couldn’t even reach the hem of my pants, the chances of him getting his teeth into my leg was Buckley’s to none. Cute.

He was just in the middle of the road though, which I didn’t like, so I got myself a stick and shooed him off, to much grouchy attempted bites from him. I admired his courage; I was like a million of him and he still just kept striking. He reminded me of a yappy little dog, just impossible to shut up. Gradually, he moped off, hissing at me from ~somewhere~ in the grass as I left.

And just in time too, because we’re in for a treat : another Chapel Saint Roch. Who is this guy, and why have they named every chapel in France after him? According to a quick Google – not while actively outrunning the storm, but after – our boy Rochy was the patron saint of dogs, the falsely accused and the.,,, invalids? “He was born into money, but didn’t seem to be a fan”, what a guy.

Story goes he’s out in Italy, catches the plague (bummer), gets exiled and is saved by a dog who brings him bread every day, devotes his life to caring for the sick, returns to France and the uncle he grew up with but uh oh! Unc no longer recognises him so chucks him in prison for five years till he dies. Only problem; Rochy has got a massive birthmark that Very Clearly Identifies him – and they only realise who he is once he’s dead. Question; would showing that not be your first port of call? Maybe to be a Saint you have to be lacking a little in the mental department, who knows.

Graveyards + storms = very pretty
Anyway, oppsite the chapel is a small, very cosy-looking gîte, filled with happy pilgrims, and naturally you speed past it too quick to think about the benefits of a bed. Why would you, when your cheapo replacement beckons, with it’s strange tarif tax and 98% chance of Weird neighbouring motorhomes?

A quick dip in the road, a decaying house with bright, recently painted sky-blue shutters, and a right turn (you definitely didn’t have to check that by writing something in the air, you for sure know your lefts and rights, mhmm, yeahyeahyeah), and the descent into Livinhac le Haut begins. It’s not rough, just a little nerve-wracking, what with the grumbling thunder starting from behind you. But, oddly enough, my brain quiets. Or, rather, thinks of something new. It sorta comes out of nowhere, but suddenly I’m thinking about the cake I baked my brother for some birthday or the other.

It had fake grass made of green-food-dye-dyed-shredded-coconut (an idea I completely stole from my mother and her incredible birthday-cake-making skills) and goals made of chocolate fingers and white chocolate. I melted it down, piped it into netting, froze it. I didn’t know you had to temper it though, and so they just sort of sagged in the middle and eventually caved in on themselves. It had little soccer guys and I tried to ‘paint’ the balls (white fondant spheres) with black food dye, but it bled everywhere, and I had forgotten what hexagons looked like anyway.

I don’t know if we have any photos of that cake. I don’t remember his reaction. I don’t know why I’m thinking about that cake. Somewhere, there’s a video of a younger me dressed as an angel crying at a birthday party that isn’t my own. I don’t remember why I was crying. I don’t remember who was filming. I don’t remember whose birthday it is. Sometimes, I get these little flashes of memories that feel so separated from me I forget they’re mine.


-Livinhac le Haut-

I’m still getting flashes when I reach the bottom of the hill – always in third person – and get my first view of the town. Separated from me by the Lot, which, I take it back, is beautiful. Wide and flowing and gray, church bright white against it. And the sun is out, and it’s warm, and the campsite is straight down the road to the left. And as you walk, a crisp, fresh smell will greet you; wild mint. It grows everywhere, over the sides of the hill and the sides of the highway and the sides of the river and there’s so many sides and so much mint and you smell great for the first time in a while.

I walk through the gates of the campground, head to the reception which is,, dark? Oh no. The fucking French. The sign says they close at 6.00pm now, not 7.00pm like it is online – but I’m so early? I check my phone. 6.04pm. Are you kidding? That has to be the most efficient clock-out process ever holy shit. And then, as I’m dialling the number for out-of-hours reception, one last person comes out. Thank fuck.

She gets me sorted, gives me pick of a few different spots, takes my €10.50 and vanishes. Efficient didn’t come close. Just glad to be safe from the weather, I make my way to my pitch, where a man far too close to nudity is sitting in the middle of the grass seemingly doing,, nothing. Mmm okay maybe I take the one a few down instead. It’s warm, and light, and sunny, but the blackness is fast approaching, so I don’t dawdle tonight.

I’m set up within a few minutes, everything inside – but it doesn’t break. Even after waiting ten minutes, nothing. So I dip, take my clothes and go to shower. And, I don’t mean to brag? But this campsite had handles on their showers, not a button. The water stayed on. And it was hot. Like, I-had-to-turn-the-temperature-down-for-the-first-time-in-my-short-history-of-French-campsites hot. It was a herculean effort to turn the water off, I can tell you that much. I could’ve single-handedly doubled the drought, but I didn’t. You’re welcome, France <33

In comparison to the perfect heat of the water, the air was a knife. Shaking, I got changed, hobbled back outside. It still hadn’t broke, even after all my time in the bathroom. If it never broke I’d be so upset – I needed an electric boost. By the time I’ve had dinner and gotten ready for bed, it looks like no luck. ‘Fuck, I think, maybe I should’ve just saved my money and went for a bench‘.

And then it b r e a k s.

Action shots (it was bright, if you couldn’t tell)
I’ve never been more glad with a decision in my life, because this time, when the storm arrives, it doesn’t tease, doesn’t wind up; it’s violent. The lightning is bright white, sizzles when it hits the ground, the powerlines, the trees. It leaves red air everywhere, hair standing on end. Electricity cuts; the wind barrages my tent so hard all but three of my (fully hammered) pegs fly loose. My tent is almost bent in half, and I’m genuinely worried it’ll snap. The thunder is ear-splitting, the press-your-palms-to-your-ears kind, the kind that shakes the floor. I feel like I’m inside the storm. It’s fucking awesome.

I lay and wait, count the seconds between thunderclaps till they converge and everything is noise and light and rain. I’m cold, but I’m overheating. I love storms, and I feel awful. It’s an odd clash; it’s back to constant internal yelling, and I’m exhausted. I’ve got so many maybe’s drifting around, and I just need them to stop. Or, one can stay. Maybe a rest day soon would be good.

What a view :]

---

Day 28 – September 17th

Conques to Livinhac le Haut

22.2km

~ 229.3km total

€20.05

~ €242.98 total

(594.0km combined)

(€872.21 combined)

 

[sunflowerfunk]

Day 29 : Semi-Trucks Make for the Best White Noise
-Livinhac le Haut-

When I woke, it was,, quiet. The rain had stopped, and the campground was still. It felt strange, after the havoc of yesterday, and when I stood up, you could see the evidence. Signs on the floor, letters bleeding onto the gravel, motorhomes folded in on themselves.

The French couple in the one beside me come over, ask me something I can’t understand. He translates;

“Had a fun night?”

They joke a little, him as mediator. At one point I say something and laugh, and he chuckles.

“Hard life, huh?”

Yeah okay fair play Frenchman.

I pack up in the cold – Livinhac’s fog has nothing on Espalion, but it’s still icey – then unpack. Then repack, and then – where is it? I can’t locate one of my film roll canisters which is a Big problem, because that particular one houses all of the Scotland pictures, all of the Germany pictures, all of the soft small ones that would remind me of things already forgotten. Photos and words could pin my recollections down somewhere, and I hadn’t written anything down in Scotland. Shit.

A Lot of fog (sorry)
Hoping and praying it’s somewhere in a tiny place I can’t see yet, I choose to leave. It’s clearly not here, and I can’t pinpoint the last time I definitively saw it – I couldn’t backtrack for days for photos that might not be there. It was a tense morning – every step felt like a mistake. But, with the promise of an in-depth check at the first water fountain, I’m on my way by 9.05am. Killing the whole timing thing, but as long as I get to Figeac by 7.00pm, we’ll be fine. I cross the bridge over the Lot, finally actually enter Livinhac le Haut.

It’s very cool, with winding streets full of art. I’m taking expos, galleries, painting classes, on the benches, on the road, on the sides of houses. It’s also full of other pilgrims starting their day. I get stuck in a little blob of them, smack-bang in the middle. Me and another lady start to overtake, step around the others. She’s ahead, and she’s almost at Speed Demon’s level; no matter what I do, I can’t seem to catch up.

(Literally) street art :]
I follow her silhouette through the fog as we wind up the mountainside; both of us pause for photos at every other turn. It’s hard not to – it’s incredible. As the sun comes up over the clouds, houses appear out of nowhere – we’re already in a new town. Or settlement, whichever you prefer. They’re all dead, but why would you expect anything less. A few more winds, one last uphill then you’re drifting down on into Montredon.


-Montredon-

It’s also quiet, but there are signs of life from other pilgrims, which is nice. Montredon’s welcome sign and mini rest-stop is still a good 800m from the actual town, but we’ll start here. A few waves from other walkers sitting down to enjoy breakfast, and you’ll push on. You’re real goddamn hungry, and your new habit of waiting till the first stop to eat breakfast is not making a lot of sense right now.

Sitting higher than the surrounding areas, Montredon is lucky in that it is currently doused in sunlight, not fog. I’m drinking in the warmth; I don’t do well in the cold. Resisting the urge to photosynthesise for the next few hours instead of walking, I refill my water, have my in-depth search. And I find it. Thank God. It’s tucked away in a tiny little bundle of fabric on the inside of the back pocket – not a clue how it got there, but I’m glad it did.

Welcome to not-quite-Montredon
It has the bonus of positively skyrocketing my mood, too. It’s warm, and I didn’t lose my memories, and I’ve got the lame cute little photos, and I’ve got cold water, and everything is good and great and fine. All I need now is food. Or a fully stocked pilgrim rest stop, that’ll work. I grab a stamp (my first in five days – I am terrible at this), and a little treat or two. Okay, maybe three; I’m hungry, shh. It’s donation-based so I make mine, move on. There’s allegedly an épicerie here, although it does end up being a minipicerie that’s kinda just a shelf in this guy’s house, which feels a little too intimate for me, so I don’t stop. I’ll get food when I arrive, it’ll motivate me more.

Speaking of; I decide not to eat till I get to Chapel de Guirande, another hour from here. I need some kind of push – I’m walking really slowly today. I pass towns and villages, miss a turn because I’m too busy daydreaming and don’t realise for another 500m, not until I come to a cattle fence on every side, and a poorly hidden caravan. Riiight okay. Backtrack, find the turn. Slip almost immediately, but not badly. Wibble-wobble down the rocky descent, emerge to find,,,, baby donkeys??

I don’t think I’ve ever seen non-adult donkeys, but I’m happy to report they’re even cuter than they sound, and yes, their heads are still massively disproportionate when they’re young. Also, they share their little field with a llama, which is not important, I just wanted you to know.

The donkeys and the llama are directly aside from the church, which is nice. I dodge the very chatty looking pilgrims at the actual rest area (sorry), and head to the tables on the other side of the road. They’d be terrible to sleep on, far too thin and weirdly shaped. But they’ll do for their intended purpose, I suppose. A meal for kings; my stale baguette end, the last of a jar of pesto and about six loose pringles. Yum. Now I’ve got motivation; I’m fresh out of shops till Figeac.

I’m still only 9km out of Livinhac – I’ve got just under 14km to go. Ohh boy. As I start packing up, I’m joined by two French women, who pull out synchronised cans of tuna. I love them. The next few kilometres are actually,,, quite nice? There’s something in the air today – I don’t feel so shitty. The lightning blitzed it all away; for the first time in a few days I look up from the gravel. Turns out it’s still beautiful?

It’s a different kind of beauty, the understated kind. It’s just dirt roads and empty fields, cattle grazing and a few abandoned buildings, but the sky is so blue and the grass so green and the wind so soft. Everyday beauty, if that made sense. I’m smiling (crazy) as I weave downhill. I pass a few gîtes that offer camping and a shower for €5 and it takes every bone in my body to keep walking. Next time.

No more grand lake :[
A lake that must have surely at some point been vast and impressive, but was now just a muddy puddle. You could really tell the drought wad rough here; the ground was parched, the mud cracking. That was more like the drought I knew. I followed the footsteps in front of me, left some of mine in case anyone needed the direction. Never the first pilgrim, never the last. How many had the people in these houses seen?


-Saint-Felix-

Six kilometres later, Saint-Felix comes into view. It’s got toilets, and water, and free wifi for the first time ever. I’m wrecked, so it’s break time – I take off my shoes, stretch out in the grass, sit back up and put on a jumper then re-stretch out. I reply to a few messages, apologise for being so late with blogs. If I’m honest, I’m maybe writing this a day later,,,, oops.

I watch the other pilgrims come and go, watch the groups form and split. Eventually, it’s my turn to continue the walk, to shoulder my pack and hobble for my first few meters. It’s just nine more, just nine more. Constant loop, just nine more. I am feeling very cheery now; lovely comments have made me forget how tired I am. The final nine are,, not much to report.

Cool trees :]
The last down towards Figeac is a little rough at times, and takes a few kilometres, but hey, luckily for me, the campsite is right on the way, before the actual town. Sweet :] I’m feeling good, feeling like I can walk way longer. Take that, body. Listen to you?? As if.


-Figeac-

The campsite does scare me for a split second though – the prices listed on the signs leading up to it end at the first of September, and it’s currently more than two weeks later. But, good news, it is open. And cheaper than both of the prices listed. Sweet. I get a pitch for the night for €9.45, which is not bad at all.

There are two lines in this place, and I’m behind an older trans woman. The man opposite me takes one look at her and nudges his wife, and they laugh, and he looks at me and raises his eyebrows in a ‘get a load of this’ kind of way. What a fucking arsehole. I try to look at him in a ‘get fucked you absolute wanker’ sort of way, hope that it translates universally. He looks away.

Set up and realising there’s public park benches right near the river I definitely could have slept on instead, I headed into town. I needed food. And I wanted to figure out a new SIM card – this one was just not cutting it. I should have time for both, I’m only a half hour away. I wander in, and dear God, I can’t explain the feeling. This is going to shock a few people, but turns out walking without eighteen kilos strapped to your back is actually easier!?!?! Who knew !!

You also walk at the speed of light, apparently, my pace jumping up by a few decimals. I was in the middle of the city in a flash, and I have a confession; I liked it. I mean, the cars and noise was hell, but Figeac seemed,,,, cool. That wasn’t the right word, but neither were any of my other synonyms. It was bright, and old, and I walked past amateur painting hour and pottery classes, and the streets didn’t smell like shit, and yeah I walked super casually through a police blockade because I didn’t understand what was happening, but other than that it was great.

I slipped into Carrefour, finally not needing to take my pack on and off four times in a row to put everything away while proving I didn’t steal anything. I was still stepping in wide circles around everything though, so I didn’t knock things off shelves. Except, naturally, I didn’t, I just looked very strange and mildly off-putting, if I was reading my fellow shoppers’ facial expressions right. Armed with Orangina (of course), cherry tomatoes, pesto, bread, some more of the beetroot thing, and a muffin, I left.

Now, SIM time. Google Maps leads me down some very dead, dodgy looking streets that eventually spit me out in front of an SFR. Now, here’s where my social brilliance strikes; I decide, rather than ask if anyone speaks English, I’m going to assume they don’t, write a very long passage in Google Translate, and just sort of,,, shove my phone in their general direction. And then, when they respond, in English, I will respond with more Google Translate. And then, when they say, to my face,

“You know you can just speak in English, right?”

I will go, “Oh!” and promptly forget why I’m here.

They explain that they have some plans, and would I like to see them? But alas, my brain is an empty void, until someone blurts out, “No thanks, I don’t need a plan, just a SIM”.

And they look at each other, and look at me, and I promptly say “Okay! Bye!” and walk out of the store, cringing myself into oblivion and trying to wipe all memory of the event from my mind. The cruelty of this blog is now I’m never going to forget that. Jesus Christ.

But still, my Optimist has the reigns to my empty rattling head at the moment, so I’m seeing that as a half success – I can get an SFR plan. Just,,, not from this one. I can never go near this SFR again in my life. I’m running away, back to the campsite. The next one is in Cahors, and I should be there in the next few days, so I’ll have time to research and be less of a social planecrash <33

I pay €2 for internet that doesn’t work, try to figure out where I can spend my rest day. There’s a campsite about a day away, in Cajarc, that has camping for €5.50 a night – currently top choice. I’m not ever really sure where ‘pain is growth’ ends and ‘listen to your body’ starts, but I’m fairly certain a day to do nothing is never a bad thing so! Rest day it is.

A different kind of art !
Later, while I’m eating dinner, the same woman from earlier walks past. She’s got dogs – two of them – and they follow her as she walks alone under waning streetlamps, all orange glow and swishing skirts. I want to call out to her, show her the scars, that we’re kind of almost the same. That I’m sorry I didn’t out loud tell that guy to get fucked. That I’m glad she’s here because sometimes it’s so easy to forget we can reach old age. But I don’t. That part of me stays curled up behind closed doors – I can’t risk the alternatives. So I let her go. Too many almosts.

I shower, and it’s good because it’s warm water, but it’s so shit because I’ve been spoilt by last night, and now all water is lukewarm again. Noooo. Eventually I’ll find a place that perfect again, I have to believe it. Maybe even in Cajarc,,,

So I’ll say goodnight and goodbye now – not that you’ll get this for a few days. Sorry! My phone will probably explode if I try to upload these without internet at the moment, but I hope the wait is worth it :] And hey, still haven’t been eaten by a bear! So I would say that’s a success. I hope you sleep well, like me, with the sounds of the massive trucks roaring past on the highway not fifty metres from your tent. They sure do know how to nail the relaxation in municipal campgrounds <33

---

Day 29 – September 18th

Livinhac le Haut to Figeac

27.3km

~ 256.6km total

€30.98

~ €373.96 total

(621.3km combined)

(€903.19 combined)

 

[David Harper]

@sunflowerfunk Congrats on your award for your writing. Is is available somewhere to read?

 

[sunflowerfunk]

Day 30 : Hartmut Engel, We Need to Talk
-Figeac-

I woke up early (for me), at a shocking 7.15am! I’d been up almost all night, probably the most restless one so far. And, like yesterday, as I got myself ready to be alive, I contemplated a rest day. Figeac was so nice, and I could explore, maybe even brave the SFR – but alas, the draw of a five odd euro campsite was too strong. On it was.

My tent was wet, because of course it was, it always was with these freezing French mornings. But hey, what’s a bit of extra weight at this point. As I packed, I realised Forclaz Girl was here again – or had been. I’d seen the tent last night, and naturally she was long gone by now. And there were three guys I’d seen in Conques too, also getting ready to set off. New familiars to add to the tally-chart :]

I was feeling a little ambitious today; listening to my body was maybe a stretch. I had,,, negotiated a little. I’d give it a rest, but only after I’d broken it. I was going for my longest day yet, at 30.9km – and I was going to make it by 7.00pm. With that force to push me on, I started my day with a brisk walk along the same way I’d walked yesterday, along the river. Confusingly, the way sends you across a bridge to the other side for a few hundred metres, then straight back across. Okayy!

It’s a sharp little morning, but no more than expected – it always is coming off the back of the rivers, and Figeac is right on the Céle. There’s a variant from here that leads through the valley that sounds incredible, but I only remember about four hours from here, so that’ll have to be shelved for another year (I have no doubt I’ll be back for more Camino’s or other long distance walks, I quite love it :]).

I pass two pilgrims here, one of whom boisterously flings out his arms, shouting “BON VOYAGE!” as I do, which is both incredibly funny an very endearing, and I smile the rest of the ascent away. There’s no fog this morning, just soft sunlight rising over gray clouds – it would seem I am once again behind the storm, as the first hour or so is spent glancing over my shoulder at the darkness engulfing the valleys. Oh boy!

But, for me and the others in the blob for today, it’s clear skies and heat. Very welcome – it’s been a chilly few days. In the distance ahead of me, I see a smattering of pilgrims in full white with what seem to be,, robes (?) or some kind of fabric flowing out behind them, which I am very excited to catch up with because: huh?? I pass a few people, get passed by others. The blob reconfigures, but by the time we reach Faycelles, it’s makeup hasn’t changed significantly.


-Faycelles-

Easily the tiniest little place the way has gone by, the only thing Faycelles is seems to be a rest stop for pilgrims connected to a house and a road that leads to another few houses. And there’s no-one. Minus the gaggle of exhausted pilgrims huddled around the rest stop, that is. But I’m feeling good! Faycelles means I’m already almost eight kilometres in, and I barely feel a thing!

Unintentional waymarkers :]
So I don’t stop, just press on. Until I need a stop, I’ll try not to – I don’t want to disrupt today too much, given that it’ll be decidedly longer than my last few. The trees are different, shorter. They’re stubby, almost, thicker brown wood, full of rivets. A few of them have lost their leaves, others gifted with massive heaving tufts of green.

There’s a little water tower I can see over the trees ahead, marking the way to the next town. I’m clearing kilometres like they’re nothing, absolutely breezing by. I’ve never walked so fast in my life, and – oh this is Faycelles.


-Faycelles, again-

I will never get tired of writing it like that it’s so silly !! But yeah, another day, another case of mistaken-town-identity. No wonder the kilometres were flying; they were just meters! As soon as the church came into view the lightbulb went off, and as I rounded the corner to the welcome sign, my worst fears were confirmed. Noooo.

At the least, Faycelles is also a very beautiful town, and has quite the striking silhouette, especially against the clouds. There’s a rest stop/cafe type deal, but it’s chockers so I keep on – a little while through the town, there’s a undercover rest area with water and toilets and a great view of the church. Score :]

Faycelles’ funky church :]
Here, I have a little sit-down, a little reassess. I’m two and a half hours in, and I’ve only made it 8km. To my credit, I start to give up, then remember I haven’t eaten anything yet, so make a bit of a bold decision and eat the last of my tomatoes and almost all of my bread. I’m saving a stale end – what for you ask? Oh, just for the can of baked beans I’ve been lugging around all day.

I remembered they existed yesterday, and then later at the Carrefour they had a special going, and yeah, I still spent $5 in real money on a Singular can of beans, but rack off, I’m taking those red ‘on special’ stickers as direct communication between me and the big man upstairs. He wanted me to have the beans, I took the beans. Don’t ignore the signs !!

Anyway, that’s besides the point; I am now (1) not hungry, and therefore once more have hope, and (2) don’t have any other choice because there’s no shops for the next 22km and a can of beans that can’t be resealed and a stale baguette end can only go so far.

So, after a little ‘should I, shouldn’t I’ with my raincover (I didn’t), I left Faycelles in the metaphorical dust. Metaphorical-but-literal mud, if you will. The trip out is very fun, little tasters of the new scenery you’ll enter throughout the day. There’s a small cliff-face, complete with mysterious tiny house-shaped hole that I imagine only a small dog could fit into, and the track passes a small rest area (great spot for a wildcamp), surrounded by tall white stone walls and moss, where a woman and her dog are enjoying the breeze. You even get a killer look back into town as you leave the woods behind :]

<33
Almost immediately after leaving the woods, you start a very flat section that lasts for a good ten kilometres or so – a few climbs and descents, but no real hills of valleys, just the bumps that come with going against the grain of the land. It’s farmland for the first stretch – harvested – long, flat and gray, rimmed with bright greens and specks of autumns orange. A few tree tunnels later, and you’re climbing a little bump, when you realise someone has dropped their hat – and it’s white. It can’t be,,,, do I finally get to meet them??

I do, and it is (affectionately) anticlimactic. The robes are jumpers tied around their waists, the white seems to be so that their guide doesn’t forget who is in their group – understandable, but also, would you feel that secure trusting a person to lead your entire seven hundred something kilometre journey when they don’t know your face? Is this an odd thing to fixate on? I don’t mind the groups, but surely you’d want them to recognise you, right??? Maybe I’m biased.

Anyway, I give the woman back her hat in the most non-way possible. I planned the entire climb up how to best signal ‘is this yours?’ with some shitty paper-mached French sentence and gestures, but when I finally got to her, I panicked and just sort of brandished it, holding it out and staying completely silent like she was some sort of deity or maybe wild animal, rather than a 70 year old French woman. I imagine I was probably a little bug-eyed with stress, which I think contributed to her full four seconds (I counted) of confused silence as her, her husband and I came to a complete standstill. Longest four seconds of my life.

Then the penny drops, and she reaches back for the hat that isn’t hanging off her pack because it is firmly grasped in my outstretched hand, and goes “OH!”. She takes it, thanks me, and I, bright red with exertion and definitely not pure undiluted awkwardness, just sort of half nod, laugh a little too loud, and run away. You’d think the more I interact with people, the better I’d get, but I seem to actively be getting worse. Fuck me.

At least I have things to distract me with – the scenery has officially Changed. We’re entering a new chapter; this one of chalk, bone white (‘you are the ornament, you are the ornament’) and stacked everywhere. About ten minutes ago, give or take, you and I entered one of the regions’ many chalk-plateaus (causses), this one ‘des Causses du Quercy’. It’s all going to shift very fast, and again, you’ll feel like you’re somewhere else.

Here, there are squat little houses of chalkstone – that your current best guess on is shepherd huts – that resemble the past stone farmhouses dotting the plains before Aubrac purely in their abandoned-ness (don’t think that’s a word). These ones reject the harsh corners of the latter, choosing instead to be perfectly cylindrical, with small spiral roofs, all stacked stone. They look awesome. I would’ve loved to go inside one right by the path (it even had a little shell!), but the people in white were still hot on my tail and I never wanted to look them in the eye again, so it’d have to wait.

You pass by more and more, and the ground turns to gravel and white chalk; the trees get drier, brittle branches stretched to the sky. Old cars litter the yards of the rare house you do pass, rusted bodies missing bonnets, ancient projects destined to always be tinkered with and never finished. It’s beautiful – but somewhere around the eighteenth kilometre, it starts to grate. I’m so close now, I just need the final energy boost to force me to get there.

There’s less than 3km between me and my rest and my fucking beans, and I spend it less leapfrogging and more playing relay with another pilgrim. Everytime she pauses, I catch up, and the second I meet her point, she speeds ahead, rinse and repeat. I am the worlds most useless relay runner, evidently; is that even the right metaphor? I swam in a relay race when I was twelve by accident, did that count as experience?

Relay race aside, I eventually stumble into Le Puy Clavel, climb the tiny last kilometre stretch and arrive, legs shaking, at the houses (and gîtes) of Gréalou.


-Gréalou-

Bigger than all of the towns so far today (since Figeac, obviously), Gréalou is,,, lovely? It’s still relatively small, but it’s quaint, and it has an oddly suburban feel to it – at least on the street that intersects with both the highway and the chemin. The lawns are bright green, manicured perfectly, the pools pristine, the driveways spotless.

The further in you get, the more lived-in it becomes. It’s still only a few streets, but they’re full, overgrown gardens and weeds covering old wheelbarrows, random chairs stacked in open garages, tables with faded tablecloths peeking out from shady overhangs. Way nicer.

So much nicer, in fact, that they have a minipicerie opposite the church, with a bunch of round tables and water. Perfect. I decide against the beans for today, figure I’ll save them for a really tight spot instead. I buy incredibly overpriced cherry tomatoes and some little brioche buns instead, cobble together a sandwich. A Bueno too, because I need sugar (always).

Art coming into Gréalou !!
And then, as I was checking out, I heard it. The most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard. A quick jingle of bells, a gust of wind; the scene was set, and she arrived, all navy backpack and trekking poles. She opened her mouth, and out came the melody;

“Ooauh, witch waey ahr tha TOY-lets?”

A fucking Australian, complete with Australian groan. Brash as anything, she was gone, set off in the direction of tha toy-let. I was over the moon. I hadn’t heard a proper Australian accent in months and I missed them so much – just the worst accent in the world – I needed to catch up with her.

And so I settle down, my relay partner on the table one over, attempting to peel a carrot with what looks like,, a key? Good for her.

“Bon Appetite,” she says, and, when given the opportunity, why would I not try to make up for my previous white-hat interaction??

“Yes,” is what my brain conjures up, while I nod. Come ON dude.

Once again feeling humiliated, I focus on my sandwich, focus on airing my feet, focus on anything but other people. Unfortunately, other people seem to quite enjoy focus – bit bloody hypocritical, to write that on a fucking blog, isn’t it?? – and everyone is saying hello, trying to talk. Sorry to let you down, fellow pilgrims, but I seem to be incapable today, you’ll have to try your luck elsewhere.

One guy (more accurately, two) seems to be expecting this, and just gives me a nod of recognition and a thumbs up; it’s half of the pair from the fog, and then from Golinhac! They’re well used to my smiles and nods and silence by now, evidently having seen it live over the past few days.

My relay partner sets off, and I wait a little longer, trying to avoid feeling so creepy when I continuously come up to her and almost pass but don’t. My efforts are futile though, because I meet up with her almost immediately, as she stands by the roadside trying to read a map. She tries to enlist my help, but the only thing I’m worse at navigating than social situations is an Actual Map.

We fall into step quite easily, and for the first time in exactly a month, I have a full conversation. She’s American, so language isn’t a problem, and we have the same pace, so even if I wanted to avoid it (which I honestly didn’t, really) I couldn’t speed on ahead. It was nice, just to listen to someone else talk – I’d been listening to my own voice for weeks now.

More cool art : this time part of an instalment based on the ‘Dolmen’ which are these cool rock structures (think knock-off Stonehenge)
A few times I stumbled on the words, couldn’t connect the jokes fast enough – not helped by the American/Australian sarcasm gap. If I got 5¢ every time a “as fun as it sounds?” in response to an American talking about something clearly Not Fun has killed the conversation dead, I’d have the Camino paid for. It was the worst – normally sarcastic little dickish quips were like the cheat codes to having a conversation. I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but I almost miss the British. American conversations – at least with Americans older than I am – are so much harder; I don’t understand their rules at all.

But, even with that, I managed. A few general questions, the basic set of three. Then, as it started waning, as I was wracking my brain for conversation topics or even just loose words I could pretend were sentences, she asked me what my favourite city was so far. Then, an ammendment;

“Well, not that you can really call them cities – I mean, they’re tiny.”

BOOM.

I don’t care how annoying it is to constantly reiterate that cities are scary and that I grew up in small towns that were big towns to me, if someone says something like that, a little switch in my brain flicks and I have to bring it up.

And so we’re talking about town, and high school, growing up, and we’re talking about dreams, and about what she does – really sick musical shit (she is so cool) – and she tells me this beautiful story about her lifelong love for songwriting and how she got into the industry and her life so far, and she’s so into it, and she obviously loves it, and I’m smiling and she laughs, tips her head back and says,

“And I met this musician, this incredible songwriter, and we fell in love and got married and had this whole incredible life together and then he gets cancer and dies.”

And her head tips back down, and she winces.

I’m quite good at yearning, at longing. I’m a sentimental fucker, doomed to miss everyone I meet, everything I touch; all my writings condense down into some sort of craving for someone, for something. But it all feels so pitiful now. Fuck. What do you say to that? ‘I’m sorry’ is so fucking useless, but so is everything else. My mouth reacts before my brain can, and “oh shit” is the best it can muster.

“Yeah,” she says, “shit.”

We’re walking along a meadow, trees to the right craning over us, and we’re both momentarily so distracted we almost miss an arrow. She stops, second-guesses – but we’re on the right track. She stumbles up to rejoin me, and we carry on, side by side. After a beat, she half-laughs.

“Y’know what really sucks, about death? About dying slowly? About losing someone – someone young – watching someone like that die?”

She doesn’t finish her sentence, doesn’t answer her question. She doesn’t need to. It hangs in the air, painful webs caught in her hair and her eyes and her hands that tense around the can.

I open my mouth to say something – what, I have no idea – but she laughs, high and tinny.

“Y’know what the funny thing is about Perrier? All the other sparkling waters stay carbonated – but the second Perrier gets warm, it goes flat.”

She doesn’t want to acknowledge it, wants to distract, wants to make me forget I ever heard her spill her guts. I understand, I let her.

“Guess they just want you to drink it really fast and buy another,” I joke.

“Yeah,” She laughs again, properly, “Damn Perrier!”

And then we’re gone, onto twenty different topics, and we don’t bring it up again. I can’t tell if that’s good or not, but it seems to work for her, and it doesn’t seem like my place to challenge. Plus, I feel like anything I could say would make it worse, feel too cliche, not cliche enough. I’m not good at my own grief, I’m not good at other peoples grief. I’m not good at Big Emotions in general, especially if I don’t have time to draft out my feelings first. I can’t tell if I feel like I should miss the people not in my life anymore less or more. Or if I shouldn’t compare. Definitely shouldn’t compare. Can’t stop comparing.

We’re so involved in conversation that the last ten kilometres sort of,, disappear? We’ve bullied the Germans, had very different opinions on bullying the French (I am all for), discussed Nazism and the Weimar Republic (Modern History gave me so many good talking points – maybe the Germans are right, and if you just know enough assorted Facts and Things you can manage), talked about abortion rights, compared the US senate and the Australian parliament, had exceptionally opposite views on centrists (fuck them, sorry!), talked about chalk, discovered (it’s right next to the path and a bit fucking hard to miss) a massive cave, walked right to the back (I did, at least), had an emergency alert go off that neither of us could read, talked about natural freshwater springs and Tennessee, stealing figs and apples and fruits, and forgotten a pair of sunnies and then we’re there.

 

[sunflowerfunk]

Hartmut Engel, We Need to Talk : Part Two
-Cajarc-

Jesus.

Maybe there were some pros in talking to people – I’ve just hit 30km, and I don’t feel,,, that wrecked?? Let’s see how long it takes for me to regret that. We part here; me to go shopping, her to buy new sunnies. She walks on tomorrow, while I stay here. But she is only walking half of what I will the day after, so maybe maybe maybe we’ll see each other again. Fingers crossed – I liked her.

Thought it would be bigger,,
I walk past the model Eiffel Tower, duck into the Intermache, grab the most comically massive pain I’ve ever seen, get some essentials (Orangina and haribo), and some actual essentials (pesto, beetroot thing), pay and leave – only after spending far too long attempting to fit it all in my little green bag. Then I’m on my way to the campground, which, according to my guidebook, the way goes right past.

Sweet as – all I need to do is follow the stripes. I walk down the pretty main streets, follow them to the banks of the Lot, wide and still. Then, I just follow the river. It leads me down some sandy gravel paths, past a few very high men trying to fish, then all the way up to the dam walls. From here, you sort of skirt around their fancy fences and cameras and go up this vertical little stretch of pavement till you reach the highway above.

Here, the stripes lead left – so you follow them. You’re going quite far out of town at this point, but the website did say it was secluded so ! I guess that makes sense. Another ten minutes go by, and you’re still in houses, just,,, not Cajarc’s. Okay, the book said ‘very westernly’ in the town – maybe I’m just going v e r y west. Another five, and I break. Google Maps, what the fuck is going on?

Turns out, I’ve now walked thirty minutes in the opposite direction to the campsite. It’s not remotely near the way. What the way goes near is one single sign saying ‘oh it’s that way kinda’, so that’s fun. Groaning, I debate ditching the rest day and just walking till I find a bench instead, given that it’ll almost definitely be shorter, but the idea of a full nights sleep sends me back down the highway. Significantly more dangerous; significantly quicker.

Reflections while wrongfully leaving Cajarc
Also, I’ve been needing the bathroom since about the second I left that rest stop. I need to get somewhere and get somewhere Quick. Thirty odd minutes later, I stumble into reception ten minutes before they close (yes!), secure a pitch for two nights (yes!), it’s more than double the price online per night (no!). Too tired to really care, I collapse in my pitch, set up my tent, get everything sorted and immediately go to shower. I’ve walked 35.5km, and I’m still able to walk, so I’m counting that as a win, but I need warm water urgently.

The water, naturally, is cold. Not like,,, tepid. Cold. Their heating doesn’t work for the showers. Sweet fucking christ I was not a happy man when I realised that one. But again, too tired to react. I get changed into (very) warm clothes, huddle in my sleeping bag. Tomorrow I’ll do actual things; tonight all there is is sleep and music.

Speaking of music, the fishing guys from earlier are playing some crazy mashups at full volume; I’m talking the words of Mr. Boombastic set to George Michaels’ Careless Whisper. It’s,,, a little intense, I’ll be honest, but it makes for great tired listening. So I’ll leave you here, to enjoy the incredible local music – oooh Adele’s just come on with the lyrics of Ice Ice Baby – and I’ll see you in the morning!

---

Day 30 – September 19th

Figeac to Cajarc

35.5km

~ 292.1km total

€36.22

~ €410.18 total

(656.8km combined)

(€939.41 combined)

 

[sunflowerfunk]

@sunflowerfunk Congrats on your award for your writing. Is is available somewhere to read?

Thankyou :]]
I don't think so at the moment? Or, it is, but you have to pay which is bullshit !
I might add it somewhere on the website if more people are interested, but who knows hahah

 

[Simperegrina]

I look forward to your posts @sunflowerfunk, feet up on the sofa, mug of tea in hand, after a day’s last min prep before I start my own Camino on Sat. Just what I need…

 

[sunflowerfunk]

I look forward to your posts @sunflowerfunk, feet up on the sofa, mug of tea in hand, after a day’s last min prep before I start my own Camino on Sat. Just what I need…

I'm glad - it's the only way I'd ever want anyone to read my writing!
No but that's super exciting, it starts so soon !!! Where abouts are you walking :]?

 

[Simperegrina]

I'm glad - it's the only way I'd ever want anyone to read my writing!
No but that's super exciting, it starts so soon !!! Where abouts are you walking :]?

Camino de Frances from SJPP

Once I get to Santiago/Finisterre, we’ll see… I‘m tempted to head south for the Fisherman‘s Trail before heading home….i’ll see how my body, mind and spirit are feeling…

 

[Peterexpatkiwi]

Thankyou :]]
I don't think so at the moment? Or, it is, but you have to pay which is bullshit !
I might add it somewhere on the website if more people are interested, but who knows hahah

Congratulations Max!
Mate, the way you write, hell yes I'll pay. If you don't decide to become a writer then the world will be missing out. You've got a hell of a gift my young friend.
I've just read three days, I'm saving the rest for Sunday evening, feet up, hot chocolate - or maybe a glass of port to hand... heck I might even live dangerously and have one after the other! I absolutely LOVE reading a good story - and that's what you provide, every time!
Thank you!

 

[Peterexpatkiwi]

Camino de Frances from SJPP

Once I get to Santiago/Finisterre, we’ll see… I‘m tempted to head south for the Fisherman‘s Trail before heading home….i’ll see how my body, mind and spirit are feeling…

I was seriously considering doing the Fisherman's trail in late October early November, (now unfortunately looking unlikely) it looks like a fantastic time of year to go. If you haven't already got some you might want to consider picking up a pair of gaiters before you start though. Enjoy!

 

[sunflowerfunk]

Camino de Frances from SJPP

Once I get to Santiago/Finisterre, we’ll see… I‘m tempted to head south for the Fisherman‘s Trail before heading home….i’ll see how my body, mind and spirit are feeling…

Oooh that sounds incredible! And very funny - I was also looking at doing the same, I just read about it a few days ago !! Maybe we'll see each other there hahah :]]
Either way, I'm excited for you! Is it your first Camino?

 

[sunflowerfunk]

Congratulations Max!
Mate, the way you write, hell yes I'll pay. If you don't decide to become a writer then the world will be missing out. You've got a hell of a gift my young friend.
I've just read three days, I'm saving the rest for Sunday evening, feet up, hot chocolate - or maybe a glass of port to hand... heck I might even live dangerously and have one after the other! I absolutely LOVE reading a good story - and that's what you provide, every time!
Thank you!

Stop, stop, I'm blushing!
But no seriously, you're very kind :] It's always a delight to read your comments, I'm glad you're enjoying it <33
And alcohol and hot chocolate,,, you're veering into very German territory with a 'tote tante' there !!

 

[Simperegrina]

Oooh that sounds incredible! And very funny - I was also looking at doing the same, I just read about it a few days ago !! Maybe we'll see each other there hahah :]]
Either way, I'm excited for you! Is it your first Camino?

It is

if we bump into each other, I’m a peregrina rather than a peregrino … guess who choose her forum user name…poorly…!

 

[KayfromUK]

I've been enjoying reading and I will continue to read on...only got to the 12th day so far. I'm setting off to my own Camino tomorrow - only to the airport to fly the day after. I don't need to take any book to read but will carry on reading this one, instead of writing my own...I can't type in 2 fingers.
I love the honest account of your journey, sometimes very funny, sometimes very poetic. I will look forward to reading more after the day's walk.

 

[sunflowerfunk]

I've been enjoying reading and I will continue to read on...only got to the 12th day so far. I'm setting off to my own Camino tomorrow - only to the airport to fly the day after. I don't need to take any book to read but will carry on reading this one, instead of writing my own...I can't type in 2 fingers.
I love the honest account of your journey, sometimes very funny, sometimes very poetic. I will look forward to reading more after the day's walk.

That's awesome, thank you so much for reading!
Which Camino are you starting :]?

 

[KayfromUK]

I'm walking from Porto to Santiago. Easy peasy compared to yours, no camping as I get cold easily and hate getting damp. But I admire your way of doing it. It's inspiring.

 

[sunflowerfunk]

I'm walking from Porto to Santiago. Easy peasy compared to yours, no camping as I get cold easily and hate getting damp. But I admire your way of doing it. It's inspiring.

Comparing is lame, don't worry about it !! Porto to Santiago sounds s o pretty at this time of year, I hope you have the best time :]

 

[David Harper]

@sunflowerfunk Hope you are safe and sound, and that you will have further updates to your blog. No pressure, just wanted you to know that I, and I am sure some others would love to continue reading your spectacular blogs.

 

[Peterexpatkiwi]

Ditto!

 

[sunflowerfunk]

@sunflowerfunk Hope you are safe and sound, and that you will have further updates to your blog. No pressure, just wanted you to know that I, and I am sure some others would love to continue reading your spectacular blogs.

Cheers David, I appreciate it :]
I've definitely got more! Technology just hates me at the moment, and my avant-garde approach to sleeping (benches) does not usually lend itself to accessible internet hahah!
I'm also a little behind on writing, but that's besides the point! I've got some tonight though, just uploading them all now, so hopefully there'll be a small slew of updates in a little :]!

 

[sunflowerfunk]

Day 31 : Celebrating a Month of Movement by Staying Completely Still for Twenty-Four Hours
-Cajarc-

I wake to the calming sound of a sixteen-wheeler pedal-to-the-metal screeching around the highway turns. Mm goodmorning to you to too mate. It was 8.51am – not exactly the mind-bending sleep in I’d been hoping for, but knowing I didn’t have to walk a step today definitely made it easier. Well, I’d have to walk a few; namely to the bathroom. Once that was taken care of, I got straight back into bed.

Eventually, I would have things to do; brush my teeth, shower, post some blogs, reply to people, wash my clothes, exist. But for now, I could lay and stare at the ceiling of my tent and pretend I was a continent or two away. Time to daydream, what luxury :] I stayed there until the sun came up properly, half an hour later, and promptly turned the inside of my tent into a sauna. Time for washing!

I grabbed my grotty clothes and my shampoo, made my way to the sinks. Shampoo is great for saving space; soap, shower gel, actual shampoo, laundry detergent, dishwashing detergent. What an invention. A solid forty minutes of vigorous scrubbing later, my pants finally stopped releasing brown water, and, happy with a dull gray, I let them be.

I set up my little washing line, positioned everything in the sun. My chores for the day were essentially over; I had the entire day to laze, and laze I would. My last rest day, back in Le Puy, had consisted of ten kilometres and goals – today would not be the same. My solitary goal was to move as little as possible, spend zero money (minus the cost of the campsite), and write. I had fallen behind with the daily updates, what with the terrible SIM card and that overbearing teenage melancholia and all.

So I migrated to just outside the office where there was free wifi, and spent the next four hours doing nothing but writing and uploading, moving one chair over every twenty minutes when the sun caught me. It was slow, and calm, and perfect. I need to stress that I did Nothing – this is already the end of the update. I wrote, took a (this time prepared for) cold shower, stayed up way too late continuing to write, ate some gummy bears, had a pesto tomato sandwich or two, and just generally lounged.

And there were upsides; I’d sadly lost Forclaz Girl, and hopefully I’d catch up in the next few days but it didn’t seem entirely likely, but who should arrive but Green Tent Woman! And three others I’d seen walking the day before. They didn’t seem to have tents, so I don’t know how likely it is I’ll see them again, but it was nice to keep at least one regular :]

So yeah! That’s the rest day complete – I know this was a bit of a non-blog but, in my defence, it was a bit of a non-day <33 I hope yours was equally relaxing, and I’ll see you tomorrow !!

---

Day 31 – September 20th

Carjac

1.1km (I wasn’t kidding about the not moving thing)

~ 292.1km total (doesn’t count)

€10.77

~ €420.95 total (does count)

(656.8km combined)

(€950.18 combined)

 

[sunflowerfunk]

Day 32 : Minor Setbacks
-Cajarc-

I was up vaguely early – not that it came naturally. I had been planning to leave by 8.00am, and got up at a prompt 8.15am. Aahhh well. I packed my (very wet) tent up, got myself clean and sorted, did my morning chores. Cajarc is in a valley, so the sun wasn’t fully up yet, and the clouds had yet to catch it so it lifted bright orange fingers and traced the spines of the mountains.

And set fire to some clouds while it did!
Finally on my way at 8.40am, I stopped in to Intermarche again for some pain – to find it opened at nine. Fuck. Okay, a wait it was; this would be my last chance for nineteen odd kilometres to get food, and even then it was veering on the épicerie side, rather than my beloved cheap mass-produced supermarkets of the bigger towns. And I was not looking to repeat my mistakes today.

I whiled away the minutes writing and posting – who am I ?? – and gradually trying to figure out where to stay. My aim was to make it to Bach, a good thirty odd kilometres away – completing two days stages in one – and catching up with some of my regulars who might be following the stages more clearly. Only problem; no campsite in Bach. Only expensive gîtes I can’t afford. So my two options are walk less or walk more – a call I’d make when I got close.

More and more people were lining up outside the doors, and at 8.55am they opened them, and not a single person moved a muscle. Everyone waited, with open doors, until exactly 9.00am, then starting walking forward in almost-unison. I shook my head; French people. I loved them a little bit.

I grabbed some (French) pain, a few punnets of tomatoes and some pesto (only the essentials), then some peach iced tea and some kiddy textas – why? No idea. Just saw them and my brain went ‘maybe we’ll Learn Art’ which sounds both completely feasible and also how you do it so !! I’ve got textas now :]

Returning to the freezing outside air, I decided to dawdle a little. Eat a sandwich, slowly repack my bag, no biggie. What’s the rush? Soon, I set off, full and motivated and ready to go. I passed a few pilgrims who also slept a little late – it was nearing 10.00am – overtook them by the river. Saw a group of four in the distance, wished they were the Fantastic Four but knowing they weren’t. One of them was a little behind because she kept stomping on the chestnuts (I think?) on the ground and then picking them open and eating them. She’s German, had a green shirt on, and is about to make me regret ever setting off at the time I did.

It started off innocent enough – ‘Where are you from? Woow Australia. Long way away!’ – with her even asking how many Merino sheep I had on my farm; y’know, the one every person living in Australia has. Then – ‘What are you going to study?’ – a classic. Upon hearing Marine Biology (sort of), she had an ‘aaah!’ look on her face, and segued incredibly smoothly into ‘So you’re vegan, right?’.

Not the bad part, yet. Calm the vegan hatred. They’re fine – unless they’re German and they have green shirts and are about to keep talking to you. She sort of rambles about veganism, and fish not being exposed to pesticides (?) so they’re better to eat than vegetables (??) and really, what was cheese in the scheme of things (???) and hey, she was in France !! Okaaay. Very dedicated set of principles, clearly. Anyway, we’ve just finished the mini climb I did yesterday, and she turns to me and hits me with a killer question.

“So, I’m guessing you didn’t get the vaccine?”

Ohhh boy, it’s like I can smell Mullum, anti-vaxx epicentre and all that. Luckily, that at least gives me major life experiences in talking to absolute morons

“Yep!” I reply, “Definitely did get them, actually!”

“Aaah,” She responds, “You were forced too?”

“Nope – actively chose to get them. Three, actually.”

And she looks at me with the most patronising eyes and goes,

“Ohh. So you believed it?”

Jesus Christ.

We go back and forth a little, me desperately attempting to weasel out of the conversation, her far too happy to continue talking. She tells me that Germany is entering an “age of revolution” because they refuse to get the thing scientifically proven to keep people safe. Wow, what heroes of freedom. I mean, really, what is the basis of a revolution if not active disregard for the most disadvantaged people in a society? She branches off into the complete plot of every camino-based movie she’s seen, for some reason, then rounds it off with a nice, “Actually, none of us four are vaccinated!!”

Righty roo let’s get the hell out of here !!

We have the same pace, but unlike the American from the other day, I definitely do not want to have it. I pause, fake fiddle with something so she’ll keep walking, but she pauses too. Fuck. I take my chance the second I could; she stops to look at a dog and I’m gone. Headphones in, speedwalking away. It’s been awhile since I’ve heard shit like that – you could almost forget it existed.

It was the same with the classic old transphobic homophobic bile that gets spewed everywhere – I’d managed to forget it was a problem until my peace had been disturbed by the Mullum crystal-creeps. It was interesting, the whole desire-to-be-ignorant thing; I couldn’t understand it to save my life. That even in the face of evidence, people would still stand by their antiquated bullshit and pretend it makes sense. Jesus. Idiocy was one hell of a drug!

Will it break?? Let’s find out,,,
Anyway, I sped on past her, over the Lot and to the right, winding up the road to the first little village of the day, Pech d’Andressac, whose church stood all cool and towering over the cliffs. I brushed past her again – they’d walked the wrong way – and skipped out of there. It was up, and up, and up, but I was so distracted by conversations about vampires and video games I barely noticed.

That is, until the conversation stopped. Then I definitelynoticed the sweat dripping down the sides of my nose (ew). Once again, I was fuming at genetics – what was it that made Germans either the driest people on earth who never broke a sweat or just the most disgusting damp hairy sweaty behemoths designed to survive the Ice Age ?? And what bastard God had given me the sweat and hair with no cold tolerance ?? It was a cruel world.

I laboured on uphill, gaining 200m in elevation as I did, passing a few equally exhausted pilgrims gasping for air on the side of the track. I don’t know what it is about the climbs in the Podiensis, but they fucking sucked. I almost missed the vertical nature of the Gebennensis, these gradual ones killed me. Slow and steady was still the motto, so like a,,, three legged turtle I continued shucking uphill. That just feels like the right word – shucking. I felt,, shucked. Shuck me! That’s quite fun actually.

Anyway, the further I walked, the darker the clouds became. The storm and I had switched; it was right on my heels today. Every pause for breath would bring with it the sharp bite of rain, an icy wind, a warning. Keep fucking going. Alright, big man – on I went. I brushed shoulders with a few settlements, saw coloured shutters and red roofs through the leaves, moved on.


-Brunnen-

At some point or the other, I rounded a curve to find Brunnen’s rest stop – quite impressive actually. Y’know those bead curtains? Think that but a Solid Wall sized curtain of shells painted in some truly eye-burning shades of yellow, blue and green. It’s chockers, and you can see why – it’s a triple threat; bathrooms, water, and food. I press on though – I’m trying to hit 32km, and that doesn’t quite allow for breaks with others. It’s the problem with being an introvert on the Camino; yeah it’s all about camaraderie, but if I dabble in said camaraderie on a break, I need a second break to recover from the first!

It’s pretty, but it’s dragging on a little. I’ve been spoilt by the last month of walking; scenery that stays the same for more than a few days starts to drag. I try to play I Spy with myself, see if I can find new little details I haven’t before, but I don’t have much luck. Stacked chalk rock covered in a film of thick, spongy moss. Dark gray clouds are interesting, but uniform at the moment, which makes me think it won’t break tonight – usually it’s the mottled ones that mean trouble. I pass by stone huts, and fields, and stone huts in fields, and not much else that catches my eye and then hey !

Hut time !!

-Limogne-en-Quercy-

I don’t quite remember the specifics of arriving in Limogne-en-Quercy, almost purely because I was so focused on getting to a toilet. I should’ve stopped at Brunnen, my god, the last nine kilometres have been positively Dangerous. Mostly I remember the first view of the town being the one in the photo in the guidebook, and then very douchebaggedly thinking that it’s probably because that’s about the only thing it has going on.

Cute little waymarker :]
They do have toilets though, even if you have to go way off course and they’re next to a bunch of truckie blokey blokes and their Big Trucks that you have to manoeuvre and there’s no toilet paper or soap nor, you realise far too late, a flushing function. As I get out, it immediately starts sprinkling. Awesome. All I need to do is find a spot undercover for a break, and I’ll be fine. Only problem – there doesn’t seem to be one. Churches don’t have overhangs here for some goddamn reason, and the benches have no roofs (I miss the ones from the last Étang). I wander out of town, find a half-intact bus stop with a flimsy sheet of plastic that covers just about half of me and my pack. Perfect.

I take my shoes off, get situated; it’s time for my least favourite task – calling places. I’ve really been spoilt, always staying in actual campsites over wildcamping, but that’s just not enough for me I guess, and with no campsite in Bach, I want a gîte. I miss the feeling of a bed – right now my spine is just indented with rocks and hard ground. Wouldn’t be so bad with a good mat, but that’s a problem for a bigger town.

Anyone fancy a dip?
Not a single place has space. Well, there’s one single room that costs more than €175, according to Hartmut, which is never happening, but other than that they’re all full. To reiterate, I’ve become a princess, and I don’t want to walk in the rain, so I start calling backwards, all the way back to a few kilometres from here. Nada. Fuuuck. If only the world could give me some sort of indication of what to do – oh hey Limogne has a campsite!

As I walk up the side street, I make a deal with God. A new version of chicken; I’ll take the campsite if it’s less than €10. If not, it’s into the storm I go, braving rain and cold and – yeah okay it’s €8 get me in. They’re not quite open yet, so I sit outside with a Canadian couple who are very friendly, and we joke about the walk, and are briefly greeted by a British couple with the most incredible Yorkshire accents ever. It’s the most English I’ve heard in a while! As they pay, I check Whatsapp (free wifi that works??) and oh yeah, family update! A new cousin, with the most crazy intense German name ever – good for her.

I go to check in, but the lady is busy with something, and just tells me to go, set up before the rain, get showered and warm, and then I can pay. I capital l Love her. Just about the second I get the last peg in, the latest shower starts, and I huddle inside with my damp things, rifling to get clean(ish) clothes. A run to the showers, a strip, an “oh shit!”, a re-dressing, a run back to the tent, a first aid kit moment for the first time, a run back to the showers, a strip, a shower. It’s actually hot, and it’s got a handle, and I really struggle to get out. Sure, it’s got zero water pressure whatsoever, but you can’t have it all! And the first aid kit moment was very lame; I had a tick. Grotty little bugger right above my hip – not a clue in the fucking world how he got there, but he’s very dead now.

I get out, and immediately start wincing. I have no fucking idea how people do this every year – I start freezing every time I stop moving. My hands are turning white !! It is 5.00pm !! It is not even winter yet !! This is my hell !! Y’know, I’m starting to think I won’t survive in Canada,,,

I don every item of clean clothing I have, and shiver well into the evening regardless, even huddled up in my sleeping bag – which, because I realise I’ve never described it, is far more adjacent to a mummy, or a baby sleepsack than a bag – and take advantage of the wifi to stay up way too late looking at university potentials and writing. Not enough that I’m caught up or have made a decision, because who would I be if I did that ;]

Oh, and the storm never broke. I was right – uniform gray, I’m telling you !! I went to pay, and she laughed and said she called it too. It’s been a weirdly exhausting day, so I’ll dip now – I hope you’re a little more comfortable than I am :] Meet you back here tomorrow?

---

Day 32 – September 21st

Cajarc to Limogne-en-Quercy

19.1km

~ 311.2km total

€17.19

~ €438.14 total

(675.9km combined)

(€967.37 combined)

 

[sunflowerfunk]

Day 33 : Never Say Never
-Limogne-en-Quercy-

True to form, I slept terribly. My mind did not enjoy cooperating with my clearly exhausted body, and just sort of went wild every time it got dark, deciding it obviously must be the best time to think. Brilliant. Who needs sleep anyway, especially with your alarms set for 6.00am because you’re about to attempt something incredibly stupid?

I’m up before six, but I laze until 6.20am because the thought of getting out of my sleeping bag, which already feels like a sack of ice, and into the most resolutely colder air sends Literal shivers down my spine. And laying there, I realise why all of the campsites so far have felt weird; aside from the obvious, of course. Who the fuck goes camping without a fire?

Fires were the whole fun of it, the sitting up till the early hours of the morning talking, only to realise it’s probably only 9.00pm, watching the embers meld with the stars, feeling Actual Warmth. And I mean, sure, there’s cold before the fire, but it all evens out. I adore camping – this felt like,,, half-camping. In all honesty, it felt like glamping; I only ever stayed a night, I had daily showers that were (mostly) warm, the toilets weren’t compost, the toilets had lights, I was surrounded by motorhomes most nights, I was always close to town. It didn’t really feel like camping at all, more just,,, sleeping in a tent.

Anyway, eventually my bladder forces me into the air and FUCK it’s cold. My breath is coming out in thick white clouds, every limb is shaking independently of one another, I’m regretting not switching the order of the last few months. It’s too fucking cold for my Australian body, I can barely handle anything below 20*, let alone t e n !! To distract me, and because I’ve missed it, I call my dad, and we talk about blisters and his tendency to faint as a child, and everything and nothing, and I realise maybe I should possibly do that more often because otherwise I store up all my rambles and then have to unleash them all in a sort of endless stream of consciousness, no breath no bridging kind of way.

I nibble one of the last smushed brioche buns left in the bottom of my green bag as I leave the campsite, still rambling, past patrons enjoying warm breakfasts. God I miss warm breakfasts. I can’t even remember the last time I had a warm breakfast but I need one – I make the executive decision to save the beans till I have a way to cook them, and my mood brightens.

Terrible photo of the very cool rusted cross <33
We’re talking for so long everything blends; more rocks, more moss, more green, more accidentally making the same jokes at the same time and oh my god I’m totally going to end up just like him my thirteen year old self is fuming. At some point, I run into a small group of Brits looking very confused – there’s red tape crossing off the GR65. Uh oh. But don’t worry; old, slightly insane looking European man to the rescue, he simply steps through. Righto, I trust him. I follow his lead, and the Brits follow mine, and the six of us spread out again, and by the time I reach Varaire, I haven’t seen them in a good ten minutes.


-Varaire-

At the crossroads, we hang up, and I realise how quiet it is. It’s cold, and misty, and just generally dreary – perfect Hozier weather, in other words. I bought tickets to see his show last night – what a little budgeting legend I am, truly – and now nothing on this earth will stop me from listening to him !! Sometimes you just need an Irish guy to croon about love and poetry, okay?

I split off from the arrows to try and replenish my food, wander down rows of houses to reach the épicerie, where a very cheery woman is talking to a few locals each carrying no less than six baguettes each. The dream. I peruse a little, but épicerie prices get dicey, so I return to the counter with a solitary yoghurt and a request for bread. She obliges, and €2 later I’m walking out across the road to get to the little steps opposite. The second I stop moving I have to pull on my jumper, and genuinely consider putting on my thermals to walk. It’s cold, if I haven’t said it enough. People are wearing t-shirts – are they fucking mental?

Breakfast of ch a m p i o ns mate
I eat my cold yoghurt (not a brilliant choice on my end), nibble on some bread, down an apple and finish off some bits and bobs. My trip to the skip almost ends my camino early, as a cat that had gotten trapped absolutely flies out of there the second I open it, promptly causing my heart to give out, and for the quiet French streets to be awoken with a hearty “FUCK”, which sends me embarrassed back the way I came.

As I wander on, rejoining the arrows, I think a little more about how dead fucking dumb my goal is. I want to make it to Cahors today. I’ve walked 7km so far, which, according to my guidebook, leaves a breezy 33km to go. Yeah, 40km in a day. When 35km almost had me sleeping in a ditch by the highway. Genius.

At the very least, everything seems to be passing by extraordinarily quickly – genuinely this time – the kilometres skipping by me like nothing. I’m too busy daydreaming and reminiscing, you know me. The real world? Why would I bother :] In fact, the first few houses confuse me – I was expecting another hour to go!


-Bach-

Bach is a lovely little hub, and it’s way-marker sign is very cute – I’m so close to halfway now !! Reassured, I move on, trying to find a rest area as the rain starts up again, but alas, today I’m fresh out of luck. Time to be a little sacrilegious. The church is unlocked, because of course it is, so I sit inside, fix my blisters – evidently, I jinxed it by telling my dad this morning I hadn’t had a new one in ages, because I’ve got a new little bastard – chuck on a few bandaids that won’t last a day, revel in the warmth that comes with stuffy air. Yum.

Only a few days to go :]!
Considering I’m here anyway, I air my feet and make my final sandwich out of the last pesto and bread ends. I’m considering a proper break (a good thirty minutes or so), but a consult of my book unfortunately sends that one out the stained glass windows. I’ve got just under nine hours till the campsite closes, and 26km to go – I’ll need a few breaks between now and then anyway.

So I walk on, and on, and on, and after thirty minutes reach the marker telling me there’s 25.3km to go. What?! Immediately, I hit a roadblock. A big one. I feel confident enough now to say I’m past the body stage, and well into the mind; it’s no longer me struggling to move, but rather trying to grapple with my brain not wanting to move.

And today, I’m in a bind, because I’m a bit grumpy, and a bit stressed, and it’s fucking boring. Like I said yesterday, yes, I’m definitely spoilt, but also – it’s a never-ending gravel road. For hours. With minimal turns. My mind has never been so blank, and with that nothingness comes the droning emptiness of everything around me. Everything warps and drags and I start to find myself going a little nuts – but at least there’s a few momentary repeaters. There’s a woman in magenta who waves at me very enthusiastically whenever we pass one another, and she makes me immensely smiley; as do the two couples in blue I keep passing and re-passing, so that helps the time pass.

On a less fun note, there’s a lot of racist bullshit in France. No one does rebellion like them, so the graffiti is almost always FUCK THE PIGS adjacent (big fan), but recently I’ve noticed there’s also a massive swing towards ‘defend europe’ and swastikas and nazi shit – horrific. There’s always some, but over the past week it’s started to outweigh the rest. Fucking horrible, I want to scrub it all off.

Gladly, I re-enter the forest, where the graffiti tapers off, and five odd kilometres out of Bach I finally live my dreams of entering one of the little stone huts. It’s got a little seat, shelter from the drizzle that has – once again – vanished, and god I wish it was later in the day because this would be a perfect place to wildcamp! The grass is long and soft and blown over, you’re well out of the way but not in the trees, and it seems like the law of wildcamping; everytime you pass a place, it’s always too early, and then when you need one you’re searching till the very last second.

What a perfect little rest stop!
The scenery does have a bit of a twist here, which brightens my mood for a few kilometres – no longer grassy and windswept, the dirt gives way to large stone chunks, a rocky plateau stretching into the distance. Some of them are so dark they look purple, and the moss has transformed into stark white lichen that clings to everything, even the bare branches of the trees sticking out from between the shards. It’s dusty, and seems,,, tired, but it’s stunning. There’s a single old farmkeep fraying in the distance, and some of the rocks along the way have been painted with big sloping motifs.


-Le Pech-

I’m distracted, but even so, it’s a long walk. After an hour, the rocks meld too – I barely even clock Le Pech, the town that signifies I’m two thirds down. I pass by the couples and the woman in magenta again here (who waves to me), and continue straight on through. I really should take a break, but I’m walking slower than usual, and I’m already exhausted, which are both reasons that actually count towards me needing a break, but stubborn me didn’t grasp that at all.

Just as well though, because just about the second I pass the last of the town, the rain starts absolutely fucking bucketing. It’s coming down almost horizontal, and strong too – but still, no storm. As I weave past cool stone ruins and signs that lie to me (18km to Cahors turns to 21km after an hour, then dip back down to 15.9km, then jump to 22km!), I make my way up and over a hill or two, through a tunnel, and enter my most gruelling stretch for today – the highway.

You basically cross under it, then stick beside it as you climb the hill, then transfer to another main road and follow that one for a good hour or so, and it fucking sucks. I have no doubt it’d probably be less brutal if you hadn’t already walked a full day today, but my god. I just needed a rest stop where I could eat out of the rain!!!

French snails trying to escape the ground (or the French)
The closest one to me is one by a soccer pitch, right on the way, but by the time I get there they’ve locked the inside area, and the rain is once again hammering – so I pass it by. Definitely a terrible idea; my poor blisters are so sore, and my feet are numb. But hey, Quintarde is barely another hour away, so just,,, keep going till you drop, I guess?

To my unending dismay, Quintarde is at the top of a hill. Not my hill – the next hill. Which requires a steep descent, and a steep ascent, and that is just not happening with these feet. At the bottom there’s a tiny bench, and I’ve never sat down faster. My shoes are off, my socks are off, my feet are disgusting, I’m cold, and I’ve walked,,, 28km ?? Either my tracker is way off, or Hartmut Engel was on an absolute monster of a bender when he wrote this godforsaken guidebook, because there’s only 5km to go till Cahors, if I’m to believe the signs. Forty is basically thirty, I suppose!

I make a (very) quick sandwich – the clouds are getting worrying now – and I’m definitely going to miss the SFR opening hours, so I’ll have to fix the SIM in the morning instead. But hey, campsites’ open till 8.00pm, so there’s that at least! I carry on, feet about to drop off, and tackle the climb. All things considered, it’s not that bad, but for unfit-tired-me it’s fucking brutal.


-Quintarde-

I’m staggering, I’m gasping for air, and I’m in a collection of houses that sees about eighty of me a day and evidently Do Not Give A Shit. Fair play. It’s 6.15pm, and the storm is due to break any minute; the sky is black and blistering, positively bubbling with rain. I try to be quicker, but I’m spent, mentally and physically – I clear Quintarde, but upon realising there’s still an hour to go, with a big downhill, and hearing the drumroll of thunder starting behind me, I give up.

It’s time to brave the tent outside again.

I spent too much money anyway, spoilt myself with sleeping inside most days. I’ve come to expect hot showers now – the gall! And so I set up again, for the first time since Dead Animal Night, trying to manoeuvre the fluro red into being somewhat less obvious. The ground here does not like me at all, all stony and hard and,, spikey?? The clouds have covered most of the sky now, so I tumble in, all damp, get dressed in my warmest clothes, bring everything inside and get ready for a lashing that never comes.

For neon red, I’d say it blends in well,,
After all that, the clouds promptly dissipate and it’s sunny once more – for fucks sake. I write away my vague grumbles, try to ease my aching legs, and run out of all remaining data. Oh boy. At the very least, that set of problems will not have to come up again past tomorrow [AN : He says, very clearly Not foreshadowing anything]. Also, one last conundrum I was too tired to actually think through; I don’t have any water. Like, any. It’s bone dry in this tent, and should I sleep here, knowing I have another hour to walk till the chance for water comes up again? Absolutely not. Am I going to? Absolutely.

Anyway, lovely reader, I think I’m going to do something out of character tonight and go to bed early – I know, I know! It’s only 8.00pm, but here’s hoping it works! Sleep well, and I’ll update you – if we’re honest with each other – probably in a week or so (sorry!). Though, in my defence, I’ll release them all at once, so for you it’ll be more like Abra-!

---

Day 33 – September 22nd

Limogne-en-Quercy to ???

31.1km

~ 342.3km total

€2.00

~ €440.14 total

(707.0km combined)

(€969.37 combined)

 

[sunflowerfunk]

Day 34 : Well That's One Way to Bring the Saltwater Back
-???-

Cadabra! Hello again :] I figured I’d stick with the trying new things,,, thing, and greet you at the start. Who knows, maybe it’ll stick (or not)! Anyway, this one had an alternative/working title for a while of ‘Incredibly Privileged Petulant Child Cries About Nothing (Again)’, so just,, have fun!

It didn’t work, if you were wondering. The whole go-to-sleep-early thing. I woke up at 6.15am to a cold tent that had flattened against the sides when the wind knocked the pegs from the rocky ground, leaving icy cold water dripping down all over me – all things considered, it wasn’t my favourite morning so far. I was feeling generally exhausted, the kind where no matter how much (or little) you sleep, your eyes are still so heavy and all your emotions feel thick and muggy. Helpfully, it also means I don’t want to move a muscle.

But I do – I could have been persuaded not to if I was in a campsite where I could just pay for an extra night, but by the track all day in a neon tent? Not going to happen. Besides, today is a bit of a miserable day to have free; it’s dark and misty and cold – I’d just work my way into more of a funk. So I get up, tug on my clothes, damp as always, get my shit together and am on the road by 8.00am. I don’t see anyone else for almost the entire hour into Cahors – bar the man on a freezing morning walk with his dog. Bit of a crazy decision, but hey, who am I to judge!!

A few minutes in, I go to change the song and remember my data has once again Died Brutally. This SIM card was going to be the death of me, but thank fuck it’d only have to wait an hour. I ignored it, skipping instead to the song that had gotten stuck in my head – Misty Mountains, banger – and man I love Lord of the Rings I’ll have to reread it when I get back. On that vein, I cannot believe I didn’t bring a book. I mean, I can, it’s so much extra weight and they’re expensive and I go through them too fast for it to make sense to carry but god what I would not do to have something other than writing to do at night. I mean, I love it, but early mornings and late nights are when I do most of it, and it’s almost always till my fingers are white and purple with cold which isn’t quite ideal.

No time to dwell though; there are roofs peeking through the mist :]

Cahors through the mist,.,

-Cahors-

My first impression of Cahors was that it was too big. Still not a fan of the cities – even if they weren’t as convenient as the tiny hubs, I was missing the little spots of the Gebennensis. Cities were too bright, too loud. Twelve year old me is pissed.

Anyway, the descent down goes great, my right knee managing fine and my left hip clicking every time any weight gets put on it (even though it doesn’t hurt??) and just in general feeling like a bag of bones loosely contained in skin. But as I walk down, I realise two things; (1) the campsite looks like it’s in a really pretty spot, and (2) you can’t navigate without data. The second one stops me in my tracks in the middle of the bridge for a second because o h fuck.

Bridge :]
All I remember is the street name : Rue de University-something, and yeah okay, maybe remember was a strong word, but I felt like that was sort of right. Either way, that didn’t matter; my first priority was water. I had been s o thirsty basically since the second I had set up my tent last night, and I needed some h2o, stat. I cross the bridge into the centre of town, and see a little tap immediately, score! It doesn’t have any indication of whether it’s potable or not, so I do what I do every time, and just taste a little bit. I trust my mouth. Unfortunately, this time, definitely not potable. Tastes like blood, actually, and the entire rest of the walk down the street I’m trying to inconspicuously spit it all out, get the taste off me. I’m guessing it was a little conspicuous though, because I got more than one sideways glance.

Then I see a lovely sight, one I haven’t seen since back at the start; a spinny top water fountain :] I spin it, clean water comes out, and I think about the woman and the boy and how far apart we were now. How many weeks ago had that been now, three ? Two? Time starts to meld when you do nothing but walk; it was already just about three months till Christmas. And I never had any idea what day it was anymore, which was a little problematic when you buy all your own food. But it was,,, nice, I think – I liked not having Things To Do; all I needed was to walk, and eat, and sleep. And do my taxes and fix my phone, which is what I will oh so smoothly segue back into now!

Finding University-something street was easier than anticipated; I remembered it was on the right of wherever the bridge was, so I turned down one of the first streets and boom! First try. Well, almost first try; first I misread them and walked down a different street thinking it was University-something, but fear not, I realised,, once I’d gotten to the end.

Anyway, point is, I’ve found the SFR. I steel myself outside, take a few deep breaths, practice my various scripted responses – gotta be prepared when you’re,, talking with people – and reassure myself. I have totally got this! I open the door with g u s t o to try and boost my confidence except it’s a push door that I just sort of aggressively pull which definitely does not rattle me immensely. They’re very nice, and pretend they didn’t just watch me do that, and they speak enough English for me to convey what I need, and they have the SIM! Everything is fine, and great, and perfect, and why is he asking if I have a European bank account are you fucking kidding me-

He was not kidding me. In order to get the SIM I need, I need a European bank account (if you’re sick of this, brace yourself, because this blog is slowly just morphing into my complaints and sometimes they aren’t so much mental, sometimes they’re just the fucking French), which I most absolutely Do Not Have. So I do something crazy, and go off script; if I were to get someone’s permission (ie. my European family), could their card be used? Nope – it needs to match my name. Why?

He kindly tells me to go to a tabac instead, and get a prepaid one that I can then top up with whatever I need – for that one, any card can be used. Sweet as. I walk outside trying very hard not to have a Moment, trying to remember when I last saw a tabac while Cynic very helpfully repeats ‘do NOT cry you little baby pull it together’ on loop. I find one I walked past earlier, and getting one is so insanely easy it feels bizarre. I walk in, point at my phone and ask “SIM card?” in a vaguely insulting French accent, and he just goes “Aha!! Carte von SIM!”.

It’s a nice change, and I leave the shop with a smile on my face, €10 lighter. See? Everything does work out. I tamper down my wobbly emotions, take a chill pill. And I sit on the first bench I find, put the SIM in, and it doesn’t work and nothing works and everything is too much and then I’m properly crying for the first time since Scotland.

Don’t quite know how to explain how humiliating it is to sit on the side of the road and absolutely fall to bits because of a SIM card, but I’ll do my best. Actually, maybe I won’t put you through that, but let’s just say it’ll definitely be filed in the things-I-think-about-late-at-night-to-cringe-at category. Today is just a wobbly kind of day, I guess, as I sob into the heels of my hands, not yet realising a group of four older French men have stopped to stare at the crazed foreigner opposite them. I just feel so bad for missing everything, and the more days I spend away the further it feels like everyone is getting :[ Which objectively makes sense but still, ouch.

A little lightbulb goes off, and I realise I could just stay at the campground here, have a breather, take a bit of time to rot, sort out my emotions, figure it out. If they have internet, I can fix the card, then do my taxes and everything will be fine and I can breathe. I calm myself down, a few deep breaths (again). Wave to the four French men, who shrug and move on. Okay. Cool. There’s a plan, and there’s steps till I feel better, and – oh it’s night in Australia so that plan doesn’t work either.

Shame the guys left, because I put on quite the fucking show at that point. Actual borderline hysterics – it’s the hardest I’ve cried since I left the US, and that’s fucking embarrassing. Rest assured, the American sob was one for the ages, and I don’t think it’ll ever be beaten, but man this one was not fun. At some point, my testosterone filled monkey brain decides it’s had enough of my lame little emotions, and decides to fill me with controlled anger at myself, and a general ‘fuck all of this!!!’ sort of feeling. Love my Two Emotions.

I am going to walk till my legs or my brain breaks and preferably it’d be latter, but I’ll take what I can get. I shoulder my pack, walk into the local Casino all runny nosed and red-eyed, and no one bats an eye because I imagine to be in a broken-down Casino that’s half fenced-off right after they open, you have to be a little off the rails. And here’s where the fun really starts, because I buy a some bread and pesto, classic, and then my self-control shatters and I add a Bunch of binge foods to my little basket, and I already feel so horrible about having them there, and this isn’t going to end well but alas! My wobbly little brain doesn’t care much today, as hard as Optimist is trying to pump the breaks.

I spend too much money, and buy too many bad things, and I set off and immediately start binging. I’m sure at some point I’ll be put together enough to talk about my relationship with food and my body and the general-everything around that without crying, but today is not that day, so I’m going to need you to do some detective work here, and pick up the clues I’m putting down that point to it maybe not being the best.

It’s definitely not as bad as it used to be, because I manage to stop myself relatively quickly, manage to make myself put things away. I keep walking, following the arrows, stressed out of my mind, and it’s pretty and I’m by the river but all I can think about is getting back into the quiet. My legs are concrete, but I’m too stubborn to backtrack to the campsite – plus, I always just give in when I feel terrible, I’ve never casually walked 20km, so there’s a first time for everything today. I eat some more sugar, stop, start again. Ouch.

The way out of Cahors is, pardon my French (!), a bitch. It’s evil and mean and incredibly disheartening when you’re a weepy little coward; each of the steps an absolute monster effort to clear. I finally get to the top, turn back to see Cahors, and promptly start crying again. Dude what is happening??

View from a Different Bridge!
I’m going to time-skip a little here, because no one wants to hear about my kiddie emotions and general binging problem, but I will say that I got the closest to homesick I probably ever will, and I just really wanted to be not-cold and go swimming and be where I was familiar and knew how to navigate. It was much more fun to have cry while ranting to my dad in the kitchen and eating cheese and gherkins; alone on a random hill on France wasn’t quite there.

I will leave a brief little section here for my future self to re-read though, because a lot of our crying revolved around how exhausting it was to try to do everything alone and where the fuck did we get that idea from?? At no point has anyone you loved, ever, sat you down and been like “hey, just wanted to make sure you know you can never rely on me for anything, and that any attempt to earnestly talk about your feelings will lead to the breakdown of this relationship”. It didn’t happen! If anything, most of your friendships haven’t gone as well as you were hoping for because you don’t talk about anything. You’re a self-fulfilling prophecy; snap the fuck out of it!

Anyway, bonus crying story; at some point, I’m walking past what I now know is La Rosière, and I’ve calmed myself down again, and there’s these big, gorgeous plains of grass, and in the middle of them all is this beautiful deer, just absolutely living it up, and I get all smiley, and then a cloud goes over the sun and I watch the shadow race towards me on the waving grass, watch as it covers me, which is a metaphor so insanely blindingly obvious I wouldn’t dream of using it in my actual writing, and one which promptly brings me to tears again. This time, I’m cannoballing snot from my nose and accidentally get it on the wheels of a passing car I Did Not See, so that was awesome and a little bit funny and now I’m snotty but laughing so pros and cons <33

All this is to say that time was passing very quickly and simultaneously at a snails pace, and I was having an intense goddamn sook all day.


-Les Mathieux-

Les Marhieux starts with a gîte that I have to force myself not to stop at, despite having never wanted to walk less in my life. Everything is lead, my pack weighs a hundred tons, my eyelids weight more. My goal this morning was to hit Montcuq, my goal after the SIM drama was to hit the chapel a few kilometres before it, my goal now is just to make it to Lascabanes, 16km away. There, I’ll be vaguely halfway, and therefore have cause to celebrate, and therefore, deserve a fucking bed.

As I wander, I call the gîtes in Lascabanes – all complet, full, no room. A ditch by the road is looking real comfortable, but I refrain, just this once. I call the gîtes in the towns leading up close to Lascabnes – complet. I do immediately start crying again, and finally my Optimist gets Cynic to fuck off and tries a new tactic; being nice. Actually, I’m not even going to give him the credit, because it’s not quite him. It’s more like I’m so tired and mopey and wobbly I’ve become Fear, become little baby me, so I have to baby myself in the non-patronising way, and just talk to myself like I would a kid, baby-proofing the world.

I’m trying to be nice, and be gentle, and tell myself I’ll figure everything out once we get to Labastide-Marnhac, and all I have to do is make it three more kilometres. Apologies to all that might find this blog vaguely useful so far in terms of mentally prepping for terrain and things like that, because all I can tell you is there’s a hill, and at some point another hill, but for now it’s all just moving around me, world-is-a-treadmill-you-aren’t-actually-moving style.


-Labastide-Marnhac-

The first houses are a little rough, still so far from the centre. And they’ve got dogs, too, loud ones. Ones that make me feel like my head is caving in – but Older Me is in control now, Kiddie Me doesn’t have to worry about a thing, sans getting to the church. When we get there, I collapse in the shade, set up, drink some water, cool down (get too cold, put on a jumper), eat a killer sandwich, smell the – helpfully yellow – flowers. It always seems so simple in hindsight, once it’s written down.

MILF – Man I Love Flowers
I call some more gîtes, dabble in some sweets (no idea where the line for binge vs. enjoyment is, but I’m calling it here), am fresh out of luck every time. There’s not a chance I’m making it to Lascabanes, and it’d sort of fuck up my self-imposed schedule of campsites to wildcamp tonight. And, even if I could, I wouldn’t. Most of the time, I have no idea how to listen to my body; it wants too much, demands too many opposing things, contradicts itself. I don’t understand it remotely. But today, it’s being pretty fucking clear – get me a bed and give me a shower and make me shut up, make the weepiness stop.

Something catches my eye in the funny little book – ferme. Not fermé, as in closed, but ferme, as in farm. I fucking love farms – and maybe I was clouded with my love for La Ferme de 1000 Couleurs, but shh – and this one was cheap, and only a few kilometres away, and the host spoke English, and I was praying with everything I had that he had a spot free as I dialled the line.

And he did. Several, actually – even better :] I only had to make it another three kilometres, then I could shower and rest and kid-proof myself a bit. I plucked up my courage, tugged the shoes and pack back on, started walking again. With the promise of warmth, the forty minutes went by quick – I even saw two more deer <33 Gravel paths and green, a new kind! Slim white trees, not birch I don’t think, but something tall and slender, dropping green jagged leaves everywhere. A small climb, a thicker forest, beautiful. I’m feeling so good that as I near it, I have to tug off my headphones and pause – do I really want to stop?

 

[sunflowerfunk]

Well That's One Way to Bring the Saltwater Back - Part Two
-Trigodina-

Yes. Jokes aside, getting to the halfway point feels capital i Important, and I like celebrating those things in little ways, and I don’t want to reach it miserable – it’d defeat the whole thing. So I turn right, off the GR65 and up the driveway of the gîte. After a bit of miscommunication and a Very Loud Dog, I manage to relay that I’m the one that called earlier, and he laughs.

“OH!! It is you – with the voice I thought it was a woman!”

Kill me.

The place is adorable, with an actually fully stocked kitchen, and I’m so excited to eat fucking beans in the morning my g o d you have no idea. It’s all soft greens and there’s a big piano with two crazy looking candelabras attached to it, and I’m feeling very wobbly in a gay way now.

I turn down dinner, say goodbye, and haul ass to the bathroom. Or first, the bedroom, where I meet my two roommates; one who whistles all the time, and one who doesn’t particularly have any defining features worthy of a nickname yet. I exchange basics with The Whistler, who went to Canada for a month seven years ago and somehow completely remembers how to speak English, despite not touching it for seven years (what??), as I grab my towel and change of clothes.

And then it’s time to ruin this poor guys water bill. There’s zero water pressure, but it’s okay, and I think the new requirement for my brain letting me have a full rest day is going to be having perfect showers. If I can get that, I’ll stay a week. Anyway, I’m in there for a solid fifteen minutes, trying to massage away my worries – which does not work. Convinced massage is the worlds biggest scam, all it ever does it make it hurt more. But that doesn’t bother me tonight, not really. Because tonight I’m clean. All I’m missing is hot milk with vanilla and cinnamon and a hug – I think if I got the trinity down, I’d be Cured.

Take a fucking breather Jesus Christ
I wash my clothes, hang them out to dry, generally enter the Ice Age France must surely be experiencing because it is so fucking cold. I will say, this place is very cute, but farm number one still wins – I miss Fred. I fucking love that guy. Oh, and the place has internet, so I sort out the SIM, and it doesn’t work but actually this time, and at that point I give up completely and grab my things and head outside to sit in the hammock and write whilst slowly turning to ice.

As they eat, I while away my time scribbling, first in the very comfortable hammock, but then eventually inside when it got too cold to bear. I’m called down for dinner by The Whistler, who wants me to try some apple tart :] It’s very sweet – the tart and the gesture both – and I’m smiley as I sit at the entirely French table. The guy next to me asks me where I’m from, and that much I do understand, so I answer ; “Australie!”

“Aha!” He says, raising eyebrows jokiky, “Rugby!!!”

And then several French things follow that I most definitely do not, so I just laugh and say, “France too!”, which seems to be the right thing because he ROARS, and slaps my shoulder. Nailed it.

After dessert, I go outside to re-set up my washing inside to dry, and hear the craziest piano I’ve ever heard in my life – I’m talking keys clanging, bashing on the poor thing. I shelve the washing for later – I need to hear this properly – and walk back inside, perch myself on the stairs, and listen to host guy play some absolute ragers. At some point he distributes lyric sheets, and there’s a communal sing-a-long, which would be hell if my presumed English ignorance hadn’t come to save the day.

After concluding with a flourish, he turns to us and laughs, says “Money time!”. Very Christian.

Anyway, we get stamps and give money and I make it very awkward by waiting too long because I don’t quite put the puzzle pieces together and yikes not fun – but hey, €16.75 for a night with internet and a bed isn’t so bad! I’ve definitely spent too much tonight, but right now, that feels worth it.

I finally bring in my still-wet laundry, re-hang it up to dry, turn back outside to see a half moon and The Whistler standing stark against the light of the house, and I wish I could say something poetic, full of depth and beauty, something about the way the moon lit his face up, and you could see it reflected in the pools of his glasses, but sadly it was just the massive light up vape he was ripping which doesn’t leave as much room for poetry.

I make my bed with the hospital grade paper sheets, get set up, and go back downstairs to write, staying up way too late (again) with my knockoff orangina, mistrust my ability to control myself and absentmindedly binge again, right about the same time a blog entirely about losing weight on the camino pops up and ooh I have a time. Have a somewhat melancholy end to an otherwise lovely afternoon, what with the heavy heavy regret and the gross binge-adjacent thoughts and just !! Ouch.

To be honest with you, I don’t even think I need the milk and vanilla and cinnamon – I think I just need the hug!

---

Day 34 – September 23rd

??? to Trigodina

18.0km

~ 360.3km total

€44.35

~ €484.49 total

(725.0km combined)

(€1,013.72 combined)

 

[sunflowerfunk]

Day 35 : Halfways and Full Sends
-Trigodina-

So my roommate last night seemed intent on winning the Worlds Loudest Snorer competition, and has, so far, thrashed the Danish couple from earlier. They seem like little mice in comparison; I found out later that the Whistling Guy had actually left in the middle of the night and moved into another room because it was so bad – not me though! I : did not know that was an option.

Anyway, after finally managing to sleep around 3.00am, I’m up at a prompt 6.35am when Snorer gets up and turns on the fluorescent overhead lights and starts loudly packing. What a guy. I close my eyes until he leaves and pretend that counts as sleeping, listening to the clinks and half-hushed laughter of breakfast downstairs. It feels weird to go down and cook while they eat, so I fake sleep till they come back up, and then it’s beans time baby!! They have spices here so I add in a bunch and finally, finally, I get punched in the face with flavour. This is the best morning of my life – I feel warm and am eating something that tastes like something. Right now, I cannot name anything that tastes better then these Heinz baked beans do, sweet god.

I do panic because the host looks a little impatient though and proceed to scarf them down, almost giving myself heartburn in the process, can’t finish them and have to tip half of the delicious goopy mess out :[ But what I did eat revolutionised the rest of my week – how could I ever be miserable again knowing I had had a warm breakfast??

I run back upstairs, pack, fill up water (wrong order as usual), go downstairs and sit by the entrance trying one last-ditch attempt to get the SIM to work, where I am very politely to “MOVE” by the host who, to be fair, just seemed enthusiastic to clean rather than aggressive, but still definitely scared me. I migrate outside but no luck – I continue to literally repel technology (Renèe I understand you now), and decide I need a new plan; everyone will just have to deal with little to no communication for another two weeks. Again. Ahhh well.

I set off again, avoiding the freezing shadows like the plague, watching the sun rise through the trees feeling generally optimistic about the state of my world. Amazing what sleeping Not On The Floor can do for you! The sun slowly takes its place in the sky, and the warmth finally arrives – the days definitely getting hotter again, which I’m selfishly quite glad about because walking while cold is a w f u l.

A very sunny morning :]
This morning was similar to yesterday, in that it was mostly long, long, long gravel roads, but I’m alive and awake and good, so this time they feel much nicer, much more beautiful rather than draining. I want to enjoy them – so I do :] It’s cool long grasses moving in the breeze, and old twisted trees and pine forests but new ones again, these ones more coastal than anything, which is confusing given that there’s fuckall coast remotely near us. For a moment, there’s a hint of Tassie in them, a flicker of recognition that sends me back to last May, but I can’t identify what it is, where it comes from.

I pass a small town, where the host guy from yesterday is driving past which is funny so we wave and smile, and I carry on, nibbling on sweets (it never makes sense, but today I’m fine I guess??), and eventually wander through another two smatterings of houses to see Lascabanes on the hill opposite.


-Lascabanes-

Shocker, but it’s relatively small, but there’s a bathroom straight away which absolutely sky-rockets it up in my books :] As I leave (the Way essentially goes through one street and straight back out), I pass by not one but t w o pilgrim rest stops with absolutely heavenly smells emanating (it’s definitely just omelettes), and it takes everything I have to hold back. My goal for today is less distance related and more financial; it’s a zero day. I haven’t had one in a while, so I may as well go all in! It’s quite fun to see how little I can spend, how far I can bend and be resourceful before I actually needsomething – so we’ll see!

The afternoon brings with it more gravel paths and sun, beating down on the back of my neck as I top the latest hill; a little over 100m of elevation. Once I clear it, I’m in for a treat – the gravel gives way to asphalt. Oh baby that’s what I’m talking about! You follow it for a long time, but all the better; you’ve got music to listen to and daydreaming to do :]

And you have realisations to,,, realise? Leave the phrasing alone, this is important; you’re almost done with France. Yeah, sure, I’m still only about halfway through the Podiensis, but you could also think about it in terms of combined distance, ie. 750(?)km odd. Which, ignoring elevation and the rest, is also like I’ve already done the Podiensis, and all that’s left is the Gebennensis!! And I know there’s still a rough 350km to go, but I’m so much quicker than I was when I started from Geneva – it won’t take me that long at all. My guess right now is that in roughly two weeks I’ll be in Saint-Jean :]

The view from inside todays’ stone hut !
And let me just say, great time for you to realise that, because you’re about to pass by the Chapel of Saint-Jean! It’s the middle of nowhere – perfect place to explore. This ones a little different, small and squat, every surface covered in offerings; it was fascinating to see what people considered valuable. Not to sound immensely pretentious, but there was poetry to it; it’s everywhere, I’m telling you. Poetry is cheating literature; all you do is list a bunch of achingly human shit, and it speaks for itself.

Fake flowers faded after months of dust and sunlight, real flowers wilting in gray water, old white string tied in knots, severed friendship bracelets, a single ring with a little chip missing from the side, necklace charms, rosaries, a small koala teddy keychain, an old black and white picture of a couple smiling at each other, one of those wooden croaky frogs, a polaroid of three girls holding each others waists and laughing, paper stars folded with a beginners hands, improper creases still clear on the sides, a small pile of rice, dried lavender tied in wreaths, endless ribbon loops, a single crumpled American dollar bill. A small picture of a very young boy, only three or four, with an unintelligible scrawl on the back. The things people left behind, the things people offered up.

(I particularly liked the dollar bill – ‘sorry for my sins, I got a one for you though, if that helps!’)

I feel like an intruder in this place of abject worship, even though I do really enjoy looking at the offerings; I don’t belong here, not with the rings and rice and reverence. I’m made of something else entirely.

I step back outside, rejoin the sun and the air and the warmth – the gravely asphalt. Wander along rocky ways, past new pines, and bright, bright greens that clash against the sky. For the first afternoon in a very long time, there are no clouds in the sky; it’s blue. After a time, right as bouncy beach guitar starts to wear off and the heat sets in and you consider a rest, you’ll enter a forest way.

It’s cool (in both ways) and shaded and secluded, and, like the rest of the day, you’re the only pilgrim to be seen. It’s a bit of a steep climb, that, at times, leaves you pausing in the shade to swear and wipe the sweat from your brow and press on, but the houses you can see through the thick green shove you forward.

More gravel and green
And yeah, they’re the wrong houses, and yeah, Montcuq is still an hour away, but that’s so besides the point! Because as you pass a little rest stop with donativo mint tea (that they have run out of – thankfully, else my zero day would be OVER I love mint tea <33), you’ll rejoin the hot, hot asphalt, and after a few minutes you’ll pass a sign you almost don’t read. But something in your stomach goes ‘mmm actually turn around for that one’, so you do and what do you know?

You’re halfway there :]

A quick lame celebratory air punch and a woop, and your spirits are back to sky high – I’m halfway !!! And then, just as if I couldn’t be happier, I glance over to my left – and see alive sunflowers for the first time almost all trip. I jump the ditch, slip under the fence, grab a photo on my little camera. That was definitely worth the photo <33 And so the last little while passed lightning-fast, and I walk into Montcuq with a smile on my face :]


-Montcuq-

It does immediately vanish at the descent because my knees are little bitty babies who can’t handle a downhill to save their lives, but still, I manage to resist the urge to stop early at a lovely looking gîte covered in flowers with camping for €5, and instead make my way downtown. People are everywhere, clearly packing up from the mornings’ market, which I seem to have missed by about an hour – fuck – that, from the remnants, I gather looked incredibly fun.

And honestly just in general, Montcuq is super pretty, and it’s architecture is s o interesting, somewhere between this beautiful old ornate style buildings and concrete brutalism. I love it. I’m kind of regretting not staying at the €5 place earlier, but alas, it’s only 2.00pm and a zero day is a zero day! So I weave past the last of the delicious-smelling restaurants, wave to a pilgrim having a rest and settle down in the grass outside town with my pesto and tomatoes.

As I eat, I flick through my little book, see my progress. I’m a little over halfway through today, having walked just under sixteen kilometres – Lauzerte is only another fourteen away. It’s a somewhat bigger town, 1,500 inhabitants and all! So I’m leaning towards a bench for the night to avoid having to walk past it, and there’d definitely be a bunch because it seemed to have a bunch of parks – at least according to the little maps of the area I kept passing. So after a few choccy bikkies and a mini-nap, on it was!

View leaving Montcuq <33

-Rouillac-

For the first time, an hour actually vanishes. I climb the hill behind Montcuq, walk on a spot of gravel, enter a little wooded area with caves and an absolutely massiveestate house, and then boom – Rouillac. As I get closer, I’m expecting the name shield to have anothers – I can’t be here already! I don’t see much of it, though it does just seem to be houses, because the church has water! Something which I do not! I swear I’m getting better at this!

God was testing me,,, so many places I can’t go inside but really want to,,, my god
After refilling, I duck inside for a stickybeak. This one is Ancient, all crumbling pillars and centimetre thick dust, rickety wicker chairs and a few lone candles. Some part of me always feels so fucking aggro in churches, like the little snake from what feels like eons ago, always striking at the air. I want to get confrontational, want to go into the confessional and ask if I’m really going to hell, want to write GOD LOVES QUEERS in the little greeting book and just generally disrupt it all. I don’t know why it’s so intense to me – I mean, I have my fucking guesses – but it just feels so disgusting inside churches I think. Solace is about the last thing I feel, not in a place were everything is weaponised, and yeah, it’s a bit fucking awkward to feel like that on an ancient Christian pilgrimage route through the most religious areas of the country but hey! Why should only the Crizzos (or Bappos) get to experience the natural beauty of France??

I step out feeling gross, trying to shake the metaphorical dust from me. Yuck. Then I walk, and walk, and walk. Right about here is where the mental fatigue hit again, and the constant grass/gravel/road loop was starting to drive me a little nuts. I’m starting to think maybe this whole obsession with distance is making the walk less fun,,,, nah, surely not.

Anyway, we’ll skip ahead a bit to me weaving uphill and being passed by the guy I waved to in Montcuq! He’s got a silver mat, and will henceforth be known as Silver Mat Guy – and he’s quite lovely. We joke about jumping the fence to one of the houses and using their pool, and my g o d does that sound like a good idea; it’s so fucking hot. But I don’t experience him for long, because he puts Speed Demon to shame. No, dead serious, he called Labastide-Marnhac “about an hour and a half from Cahors” – he was making solid 6.5km hours. Lunatic <33

All I’m saying is if you ignore the sign, it’d be a killer (ha!) spot to sleep,,,,
After another brutal little climb, and some draining walking, I decide I need external help; it’s time for the cops theme. Not sure why that’s what my brain was demanding, but as soon as it was on, it refused to let me switch it to anything else – so for the next hour and a half, the cops theme it was. Bad boys, whatchu want, whatchu want, whatchu gon doooo. All the way down into the valleys, all the way back up to the top of Montjoie. Directly down the first descent so far to have a danger sign – backwards, because my poor knees couldn’t handle it. But then, after a few minutes of painful manoeuvring, I’m at the bottom walking through a lovely little forest way, only a kilometre away now and – oh it’s on the top of the mountain, awesome.


-Lauzerte-

Jesus Christ. My legs feel like complete mush, and I’m just staggering on uphill, dejected and ready to find the Perfect Bench. A lady I pass goes ‘WOOO! ’ and pumps her fists at me, which brightens my mood considerably, and I’m once again grinning as I make my way into town. And who beats me to the centre but Silver Mat Guy, who has his pack on the ground regaling locals and tourists alike with stories of where he’s going, what the Chemin is. I love him.

Hannibal Lector would love it here!
But right now, the sun is starting to wane, and my first priority is a place for the night. Pilgrim gardens sound promising, so I head there first, but they turn out to just be a steel bench on a concrete balcony with some art of pilgrims,,, okaayyy. Well, the city map has the GR65 going by some green areas anyway, so I’ll just stick to it. But the further downhill I go, the more I realise the ‘green areas’ are just peoples’ backyards. Sweet. Another gîte has camping, with an orange-gray tent already comfortable outside. Zero day, zero day, zero day. There’ll be a bench.

There is not. Genuinely none, none that are sleep-able anyway, and I keep walking till I’m fully out of the city, fresh out of luck. Fuck. It’s 7.25pm now – the sun started setting fifteen minutes ago, and the closest town is an hour away at full speed. Time to run! Nah, I’m kidding; speedwalk though, definitely speedwalk. Down across the highway, over the little bridge over the river and up into the tree-line, doused in red waning light. My water stops working, as do my lungs and the sun is officially gone, the sky-light slowly fading. Shit shit shit shit. Just let me get there, please – is that,,, is that the Perfect Bench???

Aaah, teenage boys ❤

-???-

Oh yeah baby, Camino provides. It’s big, and clean, and, as it’s perfectly at the top, has a perfect view of Lauzerte on the hill opposite. I dump everything and promptly strip, waving myself off with my folded up hat as I get changed, mooning anyone looking in my general direction with,, binoculars I guess?? Ready for bed in a heartbeat, I sit down, go to eat but reconsider, and instead, for the first time in an exceptionally long time, draw.

To be clear, it’s a horrific squiggly kiddie scribble, but I love it. It’s cute and bright and fun. But I am really hungry now, so I ditch my four year olds’ scrawl in favour of a well rounded nutritious meal – ha! Nope, gotta save the real stuff for breakfast; tonight it’s pringles and some cherry tomatoes. I write, but I’m just so fucking tired that I do have to admit to writing this a day (or three) later now.

It was not a smart idea, to just leave it for later. I’m so behind now, sorry!!! I promise I’ll catch up eventually, but it might be a few days again before I can post next, so we’ll see. Anyway, I hope you’re well – long time no see <33 Hopefully it’ll be quicker next time!

---

Day 35 – September 24th

Trigodina to ???

32.5km

~ 392.8km total

€0

~ €484.49 total

(757.5km combined)

(€1,013.72 combined

 

[sunflowerfunk]

Okay, that's all for tonight! I'm still ,,, four behind (whoops), but they'll have to wait for now because it's about 2.00am now, and I need my beauty sleep.
I hope you're all well, and genuinely, thanks for caring about my silly little rambles. It's very sweet :]

 

[Peterexpatkiwi]

Hi Max. Something I meant to ask before but - what are you using to track your distance?
I've never bothered before (I tend to minimise the number of apps I use) but as I'm now walking the Jacob's Weg here in Germany it's kind of useful to know. There ain't no signposts or distance markers along the way here...
I have downloaded mappy.cz but the distance and speed recorded by the app is complete b******t. For example the other day I apparently did 19.9 km in 2 hours 40 minutes. That's over 7 km an hour which I'm capable of for a K or two if I need to catch a bus but not averaged over 20 k's!
Which was also wrong - it was actually 23.2 ks according to somebody else's markings which followed their trail exactly unlike mappy's.

 

[sunflowerfunk]

Hi Max. Something I meant to ask before but - what are you using to track your distance?
I've never bothered before (I tend to minimise the number of apps I use) but as I'm now walking the Jacob's Weg here in Germany it's kind of useful to know. There ain't no signposts or distance markers along the way here...
I have downloaded mappy.cz but the distance and speed recorded by the app is complete b******t. For example the other day I apparently did 19.9 km in 2 hours 40 minutes. That's over 7 km an hour which I'm capable of for a K or two if I need to catch a bus but not averaged over 20 k's!
Which was also wrong - it was actually 23.2 ks according to somebody else's markings which followed their trail exactly unlike mappy's.

Honestly mine probably isn't the most accurate either, it always seems to be lower than the guidebook distances or signposts - I just downloaded a basic, free app (StepsApp) and went with it. Haven't really tested it for accuracy, so I can't say for sure, but it definitely gives me a rough idea :]!
Sorry I can't be of more help here!

 

[sunflowerfunk]

Day 36 : A Balanced Diet
-???-

This might shock you, but I woke up freezing. I also woke up to the pitch dark, despite my very overeager alarm telling me it’s now 6.45am – but the stars don’t care, just continue glittering on in the cosmos. I forgot days got shorter in winter, so that’ll definitely make for some interesting walking!! Gone are the days of 6.30am sunrises – it’s shifted more than an hour since I started :] But hey, pros and cons, right? Maybe people will still start at sunrise just,,,, later!

Click-click-click-click-click-cli – yes, okay, I get it, people still start early, fuck me. Today it’s two older women with headtorches that jump slightly when they make contact with my no doubt grotty-and-full-of-sleep eyes; but they’re in a good mood, laughing at my bedhead and asking me if I slept well.

‘Yeah, great!’ I say, lying straight to their faces.

The sun does start to light up the sky again as they leave, enough that I do have to think about getting up. Unfortunately. I fucking hate mornings, I take back anything I’ve said so far about becoming a morning person, I will never be one as long as I live. A few deep breaths, a psych-up – like right before getting into cold water – and I’m up and out, breath fogging as I tug off the thermals and replace it with a wet t-shirt. Y’know, as big of a fan as I am of routines, the current morning one does leave a little to be desired.

Two new people arrive as I’m repacking my bag, joining me on the bench to watch Lauzerte be hit with light. If anything, it’s even prettier in the mornings <33 And, another pro; all of this cold is a gr e a t motivator to move faster! I hobble my first few steps, get used to walking again, then I’m off into the shade. Excellent.

Early morning Lauzerte :]
The first hour or so of today is spent in the valleys which means cold and mozzies – killer combo. Great segue, actually, I haven’t talking about the mozzies yet, and w o w no-one mentioned that ever ??? They’re fucking everywhere here, I’m itchy on approximately Every inch of my body, covered in bites; every time I stop I feel like live bait. Hate the fuckers, my god.

Anyway, a few minutes sends me past the ‘town’ I was trying to get to yesterday, which is just a single house by the side of the road, and a little further down I reach the Chapel of Saint-Sernin, which does have a picnic table but would’ve been a miserable spot to sleep. See! I trust the Camino (or maybe more accurately, the French people who set up the trail).

It’s becoming a crisp little morning, and I’m making good time as I weave through little farms and barns, making my way downhill to the motorway. I pass by a few more donation stalls which have fruit rather than coffee, which is very nice, but I’m fairly stocked, so I shelve getting some for later.

The sun is really starting to get going now, shadows dwindling, especially as I reach the newly designated Stretch of the day. Lately, it’s seemed like every day is interesting and beautiful (of course), but that there’s one solid stretch without many turns that just takes fucking forever; today, said stretch takes place on the side of the D57, for about two kilometres. I will never understand the Podiensis – sometimes you’ll climb a mountain to avoid crossing a street, and sometimes they’re like ‘ehhh highway’ll do’. The fucking French !!!

But soon enough you turn left, fork away from the road and back into the hills, passing through fields of crops and very cool flowers that look like spiderwebs while you do. It’s another five kilometres till you reach your first stop, but they’re flying. Something about the cold, the early start, something something something. It felt like they almost didn’t count, like until it hit midday none of the steps mattered to my legs. So I took that firmly misplaced confidence, and went even faster, coasting over the last few hills.

I passed by Nouvelle, a place that is just one house that doubles as a hotel that triples as a restaurant that dabbles in a minipicerie. Really – literally – doing it all. It also had the wimpiest shaky little chihuahua guard-dog who got scared whenever I stopped walking but barked very confidently when I was moving. Hilarious. Then I got approached by this big old sheepdog without a collar but with some absolutely crazy eyes who started barking and jumping and generally freaking me the fuck out which was a little less hilarious.

It followed me all the way past the hotel-restaurant-house-minipicerie, past orchards of plums and apricots and,,, kiwi fruits ?? I’ve never seen kiwi fruits pre-harvest ?? Kiwi fruits grow on trees ?? I don’t know why I assumed they were a vine-fruit like passionfruit ?? I’ve said fruit too much and now it doesn’t sound like a word anymore ?? Fruit fruit fruit ?? Why is there an i in fruit ?? English is so weird ??


-Dufort-Lacapelette-

Anyway, fruit-based confusion aside, and passing some lovely amalgamated sunflowers, I arrive in Dufort-Lacapelette (with the nutter of a dog, who thankfully vanishes with the first car) and it is deeead. It’s somewhere around 10.00am now, and to be fair, it is a Monday, but come on!

I duck into the public bathrooms and (insert appreciative wolf-whistle here) they’re nice. [AN : as I’m almost a full week behind in writing this I can now give you Exclusive Future Information that this entire department is fixed in my brain solely because of their lovely public toilets]. And after that, because I’m working with a solitary few cherry tomatoes, a half-jar of pesto, and just about nothing else, I duck into a proper rest stop for the first time.

!!! I love sunflowers !!!
Not to get something to eat, god no – €6 for what will inevitably be a ham sandwich??? Over my cold, dead, incredibly malnourished body – but because the sign outside says épicerie. It is definitely minipicerie territory; one shelf of non-spoilable items. Hmm. Okay, time to go a little crazy and expand past pesto sandwiches (!!!). Let’s try the baby food again – banana and apple sounds easier than Just Apple Mush, so we’ll go with that. I guess we can try tuna sandwiches again?? They were a bit rank in Le Puy, but still – and then I see it. Thon du Mexican Salad. What?

I buy it, mostly because it’s the most palatable looking thing to be seen, and I do actually need to eat something, and it’s a bit more expensive than my usual,,, bread, and I’m anticipating a pretty gross experience. To help wash it down, I grab four hard-boiled eggs and a small thing of peach yoghurt, totally not knocking over their little yoghurt tower and making an apricot tub explode on impact with the floor, no way!

I go to pay, realise there’s fresh bread, and grab some of that too. We’re sorted. I always forget that if they aren’t already in bags, they’ll just give it to you. Like,,, thankyou for this Massive Stick of Bread, kind French man; where the hell am I meant to put this. Like yeah, obviously it’s getting strapped to my pack, but sans little wrapper it’ll just split and fall out !! I can’t tell you how fun it is to have ‘but where do I put the fresh baguette???’ as my logistical problem for the day, seriously. Anyway, it’s all fine because I have an old bread bag I’ve saved specifically because this dilemma keeps happening, so I attach it no problems, all my stress is gone, man sometimes everything is so nice :]

I curl up on the seats outside, have myself a lovely little breakfast. I start with the salad, and I’d like to address a few things. Namely, if you’re thinking to yourself, ‘canned tuna salad sounds quite gross actually, and the vegetables are clearly the mushy frozen ones, and paying €3.50 for a little can seems extortionate, and what even is the mexican part of this mexican salad-‘, and so forth, then fair enough. But what you have not considered, my sweet, sweet, naive friend, is that this will be the most mind-blowing can to ever exist.

Seriously, I cannot explain the flavours going on at all, but it’s incredible. And filling? Crazy. As I eat, I watch everyone start to arrive, and holy shit, someone please remind me to stop at these little spots more because the amount of people-watching I can do while not looking very creepy absolutely skyrockets.

There’s the older guys, who, naturally, wake up first thing on a Monday and want a beer (oh yeah, the rest stop is a bar), and they’re scattered throughout the inside; minus the ones that are smoking outside. They’re huddled up, covered in thick smoke, holding borderline comically large cigars, talking with Italian accents (in my mind). At one point, one of them leaves, retuning in a few minutes with a MASSIVE box of fresh bread, and just brings that inside and sits back down. He’s joined by a woman who has been steadily bringing box after box of veggies in, so has a bit of a sit down.

And there’s pilgrims, of course. A swarm of them. It’s probably around 10.30am now, so everyone who set off a little after sunrise from Lauzerte is starting to arrive, and most of the tables are full; I feel a bit bad hogging one, but if anyone was visibly looking for a place to sit, I’d leave. Or offer them a place, that should be my first call probably, but anyway, the point stands.

The table right by me is crowded as anything; there’s probably ten people around a table that can fit roughly six. Amongst them is a woman with a dark blue pack, with trekking poles strapped to the side. She’s got dark hair and looks like every middle-aged Australian mum to grace the face of the earth mashed together and my hopes are skyrocketing as she says her first words; but alas, she’s British </3

Either way, she catches my eye because she’s the only one speaking English at a table full of French speakers, and she looks a little lonely. The woman next to her is definitely trying to translate, but the jokes are getting a little lost; at one point they’re saying a bunch of cheese-related words and losing their minds laughing and she leans over and goes; “it’s because of babies!”

which is funny but definitely not for the right reason.

The one translating smiles at me when she catches me staring into space directly at them, so that gives her points! She’s got gray hair and a very kind face, and I smile back as she turns to face two guys; one in all black and one with a army-green coloured backpack, both of whom are getting ready to leave. I follow their lead, pack up my things (the yoghurt was delicious as usual and the egg was yum and the baby food was,,, baby food), set off again, before realising I need water, of course.

I unpack everything, refill, repack and then I’m on my way, following the bouncing backpack of a woman with a pink and green headband/sweatband thing, whose pace is awkwardly close to mine; just enough that we half walk in sync and then one of us gets ahead and rinse and repeat. We tag-team up the hill, passing a woman in all black who I imagine is having a miserable time in the heat, and looks appropriately deathly. I almost understand the all-white group,,, though maybe I should phrase that better.

Anyway, we make our way uphill, past some more fruit trees (apples and pears mm), following the side of the road for a few kilometres into the little town of Saint-Martin, which isn’t getting it’s own heading because you just go through one (long) street, but is getting it’s own paragraph because holy shit? The first few houses actually made me stop dead.

Eucalyptus !! Holy fucking shit !! I let Headband Lady pass me, didn’t even try, just stare at the gum leaves. Man I forgot how beautiful they were – I’m not biased, I swear, but nothing beats Australian trees, all colossal, perfect for climbing and jumping off of and falling out of. And then I was thinking about right before I left, down in Bruns, out by the river. About how many times I’ve scaled the twisted old gum tree, sat in the cup of its mottled gray-white branches, watched the world pass by, the smell of fish and chips and pub pizza wafting down to meet the squawk of seagulls vying for crumbs, the shouts of the kids jumping off the bridge into the water. The sway of leaves in the breeze.

Or scribbly gums, my favourite, little stories the bugs tell etched in ancient wood, always shaded, peeling with the weight of its history – or gravity, if I have to be practical – bark unspooling at the base like a chrysalis. Massive palm fronds swaying overhead, shadows down at the bottom of Minion Falls or out the back of Sheepstation Creek, or even up past Nimbin, rainforests and mozzies and cold, cold water.

But I was getting ahead of myself; I’m on the other side of the world. No climbable gums, only soft peeling bark separated from me by fences too high to jump. So I settle for second-best, and think about all the things I’ll do when I get back; god it’ll be summer. Not even that, but January, best month of the whole year – I was so hyped. I can barely wait to swim in water that isn’t cold !! The Norte (I had made my decision the minute I started talking about it) was going to be incredible, but the Atlantic in November? That was going to be an experience – not that it would stop me (probably).

Aaaa! Ahead of myself again – pull it together! I’m never in the present, always flicking back and forth between the past, the future, the past, back to the future ; holy shit soon it would be Back to the Future time !!!! And then I gave up completely on trying to reign in the daydreaming, and just let myself run wild on Christmas markets and the flight back over and the realisation that after everything, after this entire trip is done, once I touch back down on my pretty red soil, I’ll have been gone just six months.

That was crazy – it already felt like a world away. I felt like a world away; it was the whole thing with change, where you never notice it as it’s happening, and then you look back at the photo of a dude with blue hair and a (literal) mask he never took off next to his dad and you’re like “who the fuck i s that???”

Not that this me was exempt from it, by any means. Give me another three months (had it really only been three months??) and I’ll be doing the same damn thing. Hopefully. It’d be fucking awful if I wasn’t.

:’]
Anyway, I finally eventually tune back in to Planet Earth, and find myself walking down a fairly steep rocky hill, surrounded by massive chestnut trees (maybe – I didn’t actually know the difference between any of the Nut Trees, so I’m always just guessing, don’t ever believe me I am a liar) and bright, bright green fields. I had no idea what sort of weird little bushy plants France produced, but something about them made them the most insanely vibrant emerald I’ve ever seen.

At the bottom of said relatively short hill, you cross a road and go across into the shadows, where what once was a river waits for you, now just cracked and dry. You’ll follow the little shaded tunnel for a few hundred metres, where you’ll reach a ‘private property, do not enter‘ sign and turn right, follow the asphalt road all the way back to,,, the,,, road – hey hang on a minute! Headband Lady speeds on ahead, not even reading the sign, and I guess I am the fool, because when I saw ‘property private, do not enter‘ I thought to myself ‘ah that property is private! I Should Not Enter‘.’ Completely forgetting this is France, and nothing ever makes sense in this fucking country.

 

[sunflowerfunk]

A Balanced Diet : Part Two
Anyway, you dip back into a second tunnel of shade which eventually opens back out into a lovely little forest, complete with chirpy little warblers and red squirrels. I loved having squirrels everywhere, they were so cute with their silly old-man ear tufts; every time I saw one I was back in the Gruffalo’s art style, reminiscing about Stick Man and all the childhood classics. Not helped by the continuous footsteps you’re following, but I digress – I’ve already rambled about this once.

You’ll climb, but not much, just a little slope with a rest stop at the top, currently home to Headband Lady, who laughs and makes the motion I assume stands for, ‘woow didn’t get lost while walking in a straight line this time?’. I laugh and half shrug, pull a face that could be interpreted in about eight different ways. It’s the cheat codes to navigating a country with a language you don’t understand with no internet and therefore no translation ability; a face/shrug/laugh combo answers 9/10 questions you don’t understand. And you never have to say a word.

I’ve been practicing my shrug/face/laugh for the past three weeks and I guess the saying is true because she wishes me good luck and waves me on, smiling. Nailed it. I decide to take a break at the Espis church, which should be another almost-two-kilometres away now that I’ve cleared the climb, and my little signifier is going to be a ‘pony barn’ about a kilometre before I reach it – do me a solid and keep your eyes peeled (gross).

There’s an old building at the end of the road, and for a second I think maybe that’s – nope! I guess that makes sense, Hartmut may occasionally be off about a few numbers but he’s never been t h a t off. I turn left, wind back down the road, but wind just a li t t l e too far without the markers and convince myself I’m lost again, start to walk back but get scared-yet-relieved when Headband Lady shows, sort of half-jump/monotonously say ‘AH!’ and run away. It’s rare that I fuck up first and third impressions but nail the second, but a win is a win,,, I guess ???

I follow the road down down down till it connects to an Actual Road with cars a kilometre later, where the arrows fork left onto a ,, grass path – where the fuck was Espis?? The trodden grass winds through a few fields full of slowly grazing sheep who all make weird beady eye contact with you, like the creepy little freaks they are, and takes you under the shade of a few more towering Unidentified Nut Trees at the base of a steep hill – the climb after which said pony-barn will appear. You mistranslated the guidebook, skipped ahead a few kilometres. Absolute genius.

It also takes you to the home of the two most irritating dogs on the face of the earth. Real testy bastards, jumping and barking at full volume, feral and snarling, spitting with the force of their rage at you for,, existing near them. You’ll start to climb, cursing your legs and the uneven ground, and for every step they’re clawing at the fence, not shutting up until you’ve left them far behind, their barks still echoing off the hills four minutes later. Fuckers. I hate dogs !!!

Anyway, blind hatred and grumpiness aside, the top of the climb greets you with a cruelly placed house-complete-with-ponies that is not a pony-barn, and a lot of fantastically placed shade that is being taken advantage of by what seems like every pilgrim from the rest stop. Lounging in the cool air, swapping snacks and stories, napping in the sunspots. Oh I wish, but stubbornness is stubbornness and I am not stopping till I hit this stupid church!

A few hundred metres down the road I meet Kind Face Woman and the Dude in Black sitting on a shady bank beside the road, and they kindly point to a mini-shortcut; cut across the bank and you save yourself fifty metres of winding. Not much, but massive on a day like today; long gone is the chill of the morning, it’s officially roasting!

Legs, neck, face, and general body burning, I march on into the sunlight, asphalt stretching off around the next corner, feet furious with each step. Soon, I tell them, but just give it a fucking rest for a second!

I’m passed by Dude in Black and a friend of his, who mosey on down, leaving me in the dust. The longer I go without breaks, the slower I walk. Crazy, mind-blowing even, has anyone thought to link those two things together before? I really am going to be a scientist !!

After far too many turns, roofs start to appear and – for f u c k s sake how are we only at the pony barn ??? Exhausted and probably developing heatstroke and/or skin cancer, I pause by the side of the road to catch my breathe, debating just walking into this barn and asking if I can sleep on the floor (it does actually double as a gîte, so it wasn’t impossible).

Only another kilometre. My feet are ready to fall off, but there’s only one more kilometre. Everything hurts. One more. My face is absolutely pearling with sweat.

One.

More.


-Espis-

When I reach the church, there’s a moment where I think there isn’t any shade – and it almost breaks me. I would have lost my m i n d if I had to keep walking, but thankfully, I am just blind !! I duck around the corner, find a beautiful metal bench perfectly in the shade and practically melt onto it; don’t ask me how the comfiest bench so far is made of fucking m e t a l because I don’t understand it either.

It’s an absolute classic rest – shoes off, socks off, drink most of my water without checking if I can refill it, you know the drill – and as I’m making my first proper sandwich of the day, two women join me, shuffling my things over. We swap the standards, but our language gap is a little dicey; they are not getting the ‘L’ part of Australian, and even though Austrians speak German, are speaking what sounds like a completely seperate thirdlanguage and looking mildly offended when I don’t understand. Sorry!!!

Eventually they carry on, and I catch a break in the form of a nap – for about five minutes. Then I immediately reconsider, remembering campsites also close, and I’m not even sure this one is open!! It’s the end of September now, which means most of them are shut for the season, so from here on out camping is going to be a little more,,, hit and miss, shall we say. Complaining all the way, I tug my boots back on, wincing at the blisters I’ll have to pop again tonight and repacking everything. Forgetting to refill my water, naturally!

I also forget to put on sunscreen, which I realise a few minutes later, and at 2.45pm, it’s still a long way to go till it cools down – but if I stop now I’ll never start again, so onwards it is! I’ll apologise to myself with a cold shower at the campsite; oh man what I wouldn’t do for a shower right now,,,

I’m joined by a woman in a green dress as we start to climb the next hill, and I move to let her past as I flick through the guidebook, checking one last thing,,,, there! In Moissac, there’s a place with eighty beds. Not eight – eighty. So far the biggest place I’ve seen advertised had twenty four, and that seemed extortionate for the Podiensis. Surely,,,, surely that’d make it cheaper, right? I took a leaf out of Kate Bush’s book, made a deal with God, called the place. If it was under €14, I’d stay there instead of the campsite, but – €19.76???? To sleep in a room with eighty people??? I hate France!!

I crest the hill and go careening down into the first houses – €19.76, are they delusional ?? – past green dress lady again, just madly stumbling to get to the campsite. I’m so tired, and so hot, and Green Dress Lady promptly leapfrogs me the second we hit the downhill and I have to slow for the sake of my old-man knees.


-Moissac-

Because it’s the biggest city so far since Le Puy (13,000 people, wow wow wow), it takes roughly a million years to actually reach the centre, a hundred false hopes – who needs this many shopping hubs??? You follow a stretch of road for maybe forty minutes, cars and trucks whizzing by as you pass furniture stores and suburbs and a massive, successful fruit shop right next to the local cemetery – guess they’ve got the best fertiliser!

Finally, you’ll reach a Casino on the outskirts of town, and for that you will stop – you’re fucking hungry. Grab some tuna salad (new staple food alert!), some bread, some Haribo. All equal essentials, clearly. Completely forget to get any form of vegetables because you set them down when you grabbed the tuna and forgot to pick them back up, you little genius.

Pay and walk out, cursing Casino prices even though they’re cheaper than a lot of places – more child labour, please!! As I’m repacking my bag, I get laughed at by a large gaggle of fifteen year olds smoking ciggies in the shade, making fun of my hair and my clothes, and it’s so familiar it makes me laugh – sorry, mean French children, I spent my formative years being weird in Murbah; you haven’t got a fucking thing against the eshays.

Moissac skyline !!
After another evilly long stretch of busy road walking, I finally make it into the actual centre, which is somehow more dead than the outskirts (huh??) and who should I (almost literally) run into but Silver Mat Guy!! He laughs in recognition when I wave, then we both pause, cock our heads at the same time. Heyyyy; why are we going in opposite directions?? It feels very movie-scene – we both look down at our maps, back at each other, oddly synchronised. Shrug, move on, each selfishly hoping the other is the one hopelessly lost. Or at least, I assume so; maybe I’m just an arsehole. I definitely am, given that I – for once – was going in the right direction, and upon realising he was lost got excited. Dickhead!

He’s following them backwards, and I turn to call out but given that he is lightning in human form he is so far gone I can’t see him anymore. Mmm okay mate, good luck to you! I walk down the boarded up streets, past young men smoking in thick clouds that blow away with the breeze, directly into the map of Silver Mat Guy as he comes barrelling out of a side street. Hello again! He jumps, apologises, realises his mistake at the exact second I go to tell him and speeds off again! Jesus Christ how do people have the energy for that??

Moissac gets progressively more beautiful the closer to the river you get (shocker), and if my feet weren’t so ruined I’d be in one of those ‘wow life is so great’ moods, but alas; ruined they are. A hop and a non-literal skip later and I’ve crossed the mini canal I’ll loop back to tomorrow, and am on my way over the Big Bridge. Here, a problem is realised – I’ve got no clue where the campsite is. There definitely is one, but the most Hartmut Engel has to say about it is that it’s on the island across the bridge. Sweet as, my man, but where?!

After ten minutes of wandering the streets, trying to find any indication that it does, in fact, exist, I backtrack to the main roundabout, start to work backwards from the cars – if they’re coming across, they have to be coming from somewhere, which would probably have a sign,,, right?? Right!! Bada bing bada boom there’s that lovely highway I’ve been hoping for, complete with camping symbol and arrow. Yes!

Three (long) streets later, I arrive at a campsite that is notclosed, as I’d feared (just about 5.47pm), happily pay and wheeze my way to a shady spot, spending a little too long deliberating while not realise I’m staring directly at someone who is understandably a little creeped out. Fuck – sorry???

Either way, I drop my tent, drop my hat, drop my bottle; it’s time to go to the bathroom and breathe. It takes me far too long to set up tonight, just achey legs and grumbling, but hey, at least I have company !! Next to me is the orange and gray tent from the almost-gîte in lauzerte :] She’s also taking forever to set up, both of us just sitting on our phones, seperated by the spotty hedge, slipping between worlds. I wonder about what she’s reading about, who she’s talking to. Wonder if she’s thinking the same.

But not too much time is spent wandering, because I need water, and I need it now. I do one quick wash of everything and hang it out to dry before the light vanishes, then it’s pool time. Not even close to as nice as Actual Swimming, but I’ll take what I can get! Although, French pools do have something I hate quite a bit; no boardies. None. Nada. They’re banned. ‘Well what do they want you wearing?’ I hear you ask. What they want you to wear, reader who I imagine will most likely not be offended by my following sentences, are fucking speedos. Budgie smugglers. They want you wearing budgie smugglers.

Who the fuck owns budgie smugglers?? Not one person over six and under seventy, is the fucking answer to that. And why, for the love of God, would you want people to wear speedos??? Seeing men in speedos tends to be the worst part of my swimming experiences, and you’re telling me the French actively encourage it? Fuck me. This country is insane.

Pretty river Tarn :]
Shockingly, I’m not carrying fucking speedos, because I would probably rather be shot at point-blank range, so I go for my boxers instead, hoping no power-hungry French lifeguard is going to police my choice. Feels a little odd, but more than that, it feels fucking COLD. I made a brutal mistake by getting set up and ready first – I should’ve jumped in the pool the second I saw it. I’m not as hot and bothered now, which makes this a test of my cold resistance, one which I desperately fail.

A very lovely woman and her husband are sunbathing by the side of the pool, and smile at me, tell me to just jump in, do it all at once, it’ll be fine once I get in, etcetera, etcetera. All fantastic advice I know to be true, but this pool is 80cm deep; does not exactly leave a lot of room for jumping, nor the subsequent underwater flailing. So I inch in instead, slowly slowly slowly, really prolong my freeze, massing my aching calves as I do. Then I remember my brother calling them “beefy” and shudder, submerge. Horrible.

I fucking love water, but my g o d pools are so weird. All of them are, to be fair, but the French ones get bonus points – and not just for the speedo thing!! They,,, don’t have chlorine?? It’s fucking bizarre, seriously, to get in a pool and have it smell like nothing. Where is the public pool smell?? Where is the subtle burn behind your eyes?? I’m going back and forth, end to end, deep breaths and dives, the same thing I’ve done forever, mulling over the differences.

Primary school swimming lessons, the big indoor pool so weirdly warm – always a little uncomfortably so – the screech of kids paddling on the steps. Laps of breaststroke, backstroke, freestyle, butterfly (when they felt like killing some children in their free time). The line up at the opposite end, playing tense games of ‘how many used Bandaids can we find at the bottom before the coaches get here’, quietly (and eventually loudly) hating the lessons because I didn’t like being told what to do, wanted to swim how I wanted to swim. Problems with authority starting young, or whatever!

Anyway, at some point I come up from a long dive and the lady very sweetly goes ‘Woooww!’ and claps, asks if I’m a professional swimmer, which is very adorable. They pack up to leave, wish me good luck with my swimming, and a few dives later I follow their lead – it’s time for some warm water now! I shower, and it’s hot and strong and has actual pressure (luxury) and I have a great time sending off pictures of Bernard and watching the sun set over the campground and my still-damp clothes that I’m sure will be dry by morning,,,,

This spot is one of those ones where the lights never turn off, so we’re in for a bit of a bright night! But here’s hoping the sleep mask helps – you did remember to bring yours, right ?? I feel like I definitely told you to bring it before we left !! Y’know, this is what happens when you don’t listen to your father when you’re packing (insert unintelligible mumbling fading into the distance).

---

Day 36 – September 25th

??? to Moissac

25.0km

~ 417.8km total

€33.65

~ €518.14 total

(782.5km combined)

(€1,047.37 combined)

 

[sunflowerfunk]

Day 37 : Nice to Meet You, Garonne
-Moissac-

I woke up laaaaate today. Nearing on 10.00am – because honestly? Screw being a morning person, it was too fucking tiring, and more importantly, too fucking cold. I could honestly probably be persuaded if the general damp-and-freezing part of it didn’t exist but alas, it did. Tonight would be a night outside anyway, so I’m in no rush – it’s due to be a beautiful little meander down by the canals.

Naturally, all of my clothes are still sopping wet, which is awesome, so I squeeze all the available water out and hang them all off my pack, which is both exceptionally pilgrim of me, and also real goddamn heavy – same as with a wet tent, wet clothes weighed a lot. Cursing the stupid sun for not stupid working, I finally set off at a bright and early 11.20am, back across the bridge into Moissac.

It’s gorgeous, but hot, and for once I learn from the mistakes of yesterday and stop to put on sunscreen in the shade. There’s tons of pretty benches here, all under the shade in view of the big blue (at least from this angle) river, and they look like they would’ve been perfect spots to sleep, but the campsite was too clean for me to really complain!

The last of the sparkling Tarn!
You follow the river until you hit a factory-adjacent Thing, then you’ll fork right, dodging the last of the river Tarn and melding instead with the Garonne canal. Except, you don’t have to – today, I’m doing a variant. I know, right?? Who am I?? But hey, listen, it keeps me by the water and saves me 2.5km and several hills so that felt like a good trade. And if you, like me, are going to take this one, I should let you know that water can get a little boring.

You’re going to follow the same canal for h o u r s, and yes, you’re going to remember how spoilt you are when you think about that complaint a little too long, but my g o d. On the opposite side of the water are a set of traintracks, ones that send ripples all across the endless rectangle of gray-green water going out into the distance every time a train comes careening past. For the better part of the morning, they’re the most interesting thing you see.

I don’t think I see a human person till probably the third hour, sans one extraordinarily jolly frenchman practically bouncing along as he hummed ‘Don’t Go Breaking My Heart’ in-between fat drags of a cigarette. He doesn’t count, because I like to imagine him as closer to a modern God than a human; obvious drugs aside, I’ll take whatever he’s having, guy was on cloud ten.

You’re not just following the Garonne canal, though, you’re hemmed in by it; on your right the slim, slightly gross water of the canal, on your left the massive, glimmering river. No swimming, of course, because the French hate whimsy even more than they hate boardies!! The trees tower here – chestnut, I looked it up – sending big leaves swimming gently down to the ground, stretching long shadows over hot, tired pilgrims. One of whom is looking mighty familiar…..

Green Dress Lady!! She’s resting in the shade, and smiles in recognition when I pass her, but alas, we have no common language, so I pass her by with a wave. Ten minutes later, as I’m stopped to swap the clothes on my bag over – like the tans and all-too-frequent sunburns happen, clothes only ever dry on the left!! Another train, a leapfrog by the Green Dress Lady firmly combatted with a leapfrog back by me, a beight blue train this time and a bridge over the river. My first break is Malause though, so I don’t stop because this is – Malause?? I’m here ??


-Malause-

Brilliant, it’s one of those days where Hartmut Engel goes a little bonkers with the distance, my day is shorter than anticipated !! Hell yeah. I pass a small bank for disabled fishers which is very cool – albeit in direct sunlight with zero shade but that is besides the point!

The fortieth train.,,
Malause is also where the variant trail and main trail re-merge, so there’s two sets of stripes, both leading down to the canal. I’m ditching mine, and walking backwards up the main trail to get to the centre because I am hungry, and I want to save my food for tonight. About halfway up, I realise Green Dress Lady is also coming up, and I find myself really hoping she’s also getting something to eat and isn’t just blindly trusting me because ohhh boy is that misplaced!

In town, it dawns on me that it’s 2.00pm – there could be tumbleweeds and that one brow-row-roooow-row whistle and it wouldn’t be as desolate as this fucking town is right now. I go to to turn around, skirt back the way I came, but Green Dress Lady calls out, points in the direction of the arrows. Fuck, she was following me. I try to explain, but she shrugs and keeps walking. Fuuuck. I follow the actual arrows back, and we meet in the middle of the climb, heading back down, which gives me the unfortunate chance to watch the realisation hit her.

“Och, NEE!” transcends language.

She overtakes me almost instantly, and for once I don’t try to catch up – I need food. I’ll keep walking till I hit a bench, and then it’s time to r e s t. After Malause, the canal gets a little more interesting, this time lined with old, colourful houseboats, on which I feel like I could definitely be convinced to live,,,, there’s just something about the colour blue and mini gardens on the roofs that is so appealing!

Funky boats post-Malause!
I’m walking on and on and on, past women in neon pink having an absolute time, past worn boats covered in branches and water stains, and past oh so many cyclists. But after forty minutes of no bench, I ditch the requirement, find a perfect little grassy bank and drop. It’s soft, curves to fit my spine, and I lean against my pack as I enjoy some well-earned tuna salad and the end of a baguette, people-watch a little.

The cyclists are always the funniest – not the pilgrims, just the actual cyclists – speeding along in their skintight lycra and aerodynamic helmets and odd shoes, absolutely whizzing on by like they’re in the Tour du France. Hilarious. As I eat, I try to figure out where to spend the night – go fast, and get further, or slow down and rest in Auvillar?? Mmmm. Tip my head back, close my eyes, let the sunspots play pantomime behind my eyes. It’s warm, and the breeze is soft, and I’ve got all the time in the world. Auvillar it is.

And so I set off again, into the light, soundtracked by the tic-tic-tic of bike wheels :]


-Pommevic-

Pommevic is only a few minutes away, and has plenty of benches, but the lovely slope beats it any day. The shops are all closed now, as it nears 3.45pm, but the thing it does have, though, is water. Food can wait till Auvillar, water can not; I weave through the first few streets, stop at the little church area, go to the (mercifully clean) public bathroom, fill up water.

Garonne Canal :]
As I drink, I gaze into the strange tinted windows of the building opposite, try to figure what it is. Definitely not the Marie or the Church – what else is so important? Then I hear an (unrelated) scream, and promptly realise ‘ohhhh shit, the ecole’. I’ve been leering into a preschool window for like three minutes now. Awkwaaard.

I walk back to the Marie, continue on, hoping no one is coming to check on the accidentally creepy pilgrim outside, and rejoin the stripes at the main road. It takes me left at the roundabout and straight out of town, back across the Garonne river and into the fields for the first time today. Like most of today, there’s nobody in front, nobody behind. I’m alone, and this time it’s less of an ‘oh joy, solitude!’ and more of a ‘are you kidding me how is there another stretch??’. A lot of side-of-the-road walking follows, cars roaring past as Auvillar comes into view on the hill opposite.


-Espalais-

Except, of course, there’s one more false alarm to go. Espalais, right outside Auvillar, is a little cruel, but hey, who am I to judge. I stop at a bench, metal again – how is it still so comfy ?? – take a B&B. Bikkie and a breather, that is. Solves all ills. But seriously, it’s insane to me that long straight flat stretches are worse than the climbs, but my god. I hate them! So exhausting for n o reason!!!

Butt at the very least, Espalais means we’re so close now – keep going!!! I get back up, wander past open gîtes with comfy camping spots (breathe, carry on, don’t break), try to distract from the mental lapse I’m having. And I do love towns right as the sunlight switches from ‘hey I’m the sun!’ to ‘~hello, I’m the sun~’ and gets all orange and lovely and bright and turns all the stunning white buildings red and lights up the brightly coloured shutters and flowers and the blue sky and aaarrghh !! Every afternoon was a postcard :]

Speaking of postcards, why the fuck are the French so good at them ??? They’re so gorgeous and pretty and it’s s o hard not to buy every one I see – even if they’re sadly locked up behind the glass of closed newsagents. I catch my eyes in the reflection, snort out of reflex; my hair melts down to my cheeks, distorted and stretched in the wavy glass. I wave to myself, pass on by to the quaint little courtyard housing several older pilgrims all hanging out in the shade and talking with the locals, surrounded by wild cats and little dogs. That is to say, it’s all very cute, and I smile as I pass them, cross the bridge.

View from bed !!!

-Auvillar-

Not two metres after the crossing, I arrive at the towns’ aire de picnic (ten bucks if you can translate); directly next to the bridge, the main road, and houses. Shit. That might complicate things a little – maybe they have another one?? I make the sharp little climb up to the cool old circular market hall, all big stone pillars and inscriptions, in which many a showered pilgrim is exploring, and tourists are photographing.

I’m on the hunt for a better spot to sleep, and a supermarket. Five minutes later, I’m zero for two. Six minutes later, I’m one for two. There’s a Petit Casino that charges almost €4 for a tiny punnet of cherry tomatoes (are they crazy!?), which I buy (am I crazy!?), plus some lemonade and baguette (bagless, because of course). [AN : Please know that when searching for a better word than ‘bagless’ the first two words that came to mind were, in quick succession, ‘unsheathed’ and ‘uncircumcised’, so if anyone had any complaints about that, re-sheath it, it could be worse!]

I check the last little green spot on the map, and it does have a table, but it’s just a circle of grass in the main square so maybe not. I see a different green spot out of the corner of my eye, and hopefully make my way towards it – but alas, it’s just a parking spot by the pharmacy I walked past when I entered the town!!

So, for the first time pretty much all trip, I intentionally backtrack. I walk all the way back down, past the pharmacy and the market hall and the house with the red door with the cool drawing of the wolf on it. All the way back down to those not-so-perfect benches by the river. I half set up, unsheathe my baguette (immensely fucking funny actually maybe I will stick with that), enjoy a lovely makeshift dinner down by the water.

It’s still a while to go till sunset, so I sit and laze and try to write. It’s harder when I’m behind :[ I don’t like playing catch-up – but I also can’t write every day, not with enough detail, so that’ll be something to work on – whoops! For now though, I scribble about days prior and listen to the lovely French ambience, which tonight consists mostly of cute old people talking loudly in the streets – and yelling at their dogs – mixed with the roaring of cars speeding past the bridge.

As it really get dark, I start to set up in the light of the bridge. Tables are not my favourite, ranking lowest on the list of public infrastructure possible to sleep on. Minus swings – I imagine that’s a little more difficult. Butthe tables can be made better with a surprise addition : towels! Hang it like a little hammock between the actual table and the seat, and hold it down with you and your pack respectively, then no matter how much you turn, you don’t fall through the crack! Score.

Top tip number two; check for spiders before you lay down. A quick, quiet – incredibly masculine – shriek later, and I’ve jumped the table and set up on the other side. Fuck the scuttly little bastards! Sure, they were tiny here, but my god, absolute creeps. As I re-un-roll my sleeping bag again, I hear the big rustle of leaves, the wooosh of the wind; and I wince, bracing for the cold – but it never comes! I’m so shocked at the warmth of the wind that I sit bolt upright, trying to convince myself it’s real. And it i s.

Lovely Reader, it’s time for me to go – a warm night cannot be taken for granted, and I refuse to let it be spent not in a sleeping bag! I hope you’re warm and comfortable with your table-seat-towel-hammock-bed – the air is w a r m and s w e e t and the s t a r s are out and the streetlights are g o l d and so are the le a v e s and I fall asleep smiling; hopefully you do too :]

Sweeping sunsets :]

---

Day 37 – September 26th

Moissac to Auvillar

19.5km

~ 437.3km total

€5.80

~ €523.94 total

(802.0km combined)

(€1,053.17 combined)

 

[sunflowerfunk]

Day 38 : Firsts, Seconds, and Bootcamps
-Auvillar-

I think of all the nights so far, yesterdays was most disorientating. My switch to the other side of the table had been great for my peace of mind, just not so great for my eyes, which were now absolutely blinded by the yellow streetlights. I’d doubled up; sleep mask covered with my beanie, but kept having to tug them on and off, convinced I could hear something. Of course, most times, I could – but they were almost always just drunk people wandering home, which, although not my favourite crowd, was much better than my constant oh-shit-what-if-its-the-cops fear.

At one point, I half woke up, confused as to why the stars were still out, then remembered the sun had started to take longer to rise, checked my phone convinced it could only be another thirty minutes or so, only to find it was 3.14am, and not a soul was awake. Oh, and everything I owned was absolutely soaked. I guess being near a river the condensation is worse? Or maybe it was because of the initial warmth (which had definitely worn off by now)? It definitely hadn’t rained, but my sleeping bag was damp – thankfully, only the outside – and everything else was covered in water. Helpfully, I decided that was a problem for actual morning me, and rolled back over to sleep.

At 6.45am, I actually woke up, but it was even darkerthan yesterday had been, and the sun wasn’t even showing hints yet. And so I decided I wouldn’t either. Yeah, I was in a yellow sleeping bag in direct view of everyone, but until I heard the first people start to move, I was not getting out of this sack. Naturally, someone immediately turned on a bedroom light, prompting a groan and my retreat from the warmth.

Now I was awake, and cold, and had to deal with the fact that everything was wet, including the clothes I had so painstakingly tried to dry over the past day. I tugged my towel out from underneath my bag, did my best to dry everything on the also-damp wood of the table, repacked it all. Damp, but sorted. Getting changed was a brutal task this morning, but it was helped with the fact I had access to a bathroom and didn’t have to risk mooning someone!

I brushed my teeth, tried to roughly make my hair look like someone who hasn’t slept on a bench all night, which is much harder than it sounds when (1) you definitely did sleep on a bench all night, and (2) you don’t have a mirror to work with. Eventually, I’m ready to go at a crisp 7.20am; not bad! And, just because I’m sure no-one’s sick of hearing it yet, it’s so, so, so cold.

I retrace my retraced steps from yesterday back into the centre of Auvillar, past the dead streets and closed cafes, and follow the distant clicks I hear up ahead (and the stripes, but y’know). I completely understand using trekking poles, and I honestly know I probably should, but I just can’t bring myself to, not in towns at least – I’d go fucking mental living on the camino, hearing nothing but click-click-click-click 24/7.

Anyway, second-hand embarrassment aside and mentally apologising to every house we pass, the little bottle-neck of early starters (for once, I’m amongst them!) make our way up and out, to the top of the hill the town is draped across, where we’re rewarded with a fantastic sunrise, all red and glowing and massive, cutting through the thick fog. I don’t get a photo, I don’t even try – they never capture the beauty quite right, and I’d rather not look away for a second longer than I have to.

But soon, it’s time to keep moving, however brief my pause of awe may have been. Yesterday was short, but exhausting, and I’m hoping that’ll balance out and make today long but re-energising – I have a ways to go to reach Lectoure; thirty odd kilometres, to be more specific (vaguely). I’m trying to mash two stages into one, but I have something on my side; time. Lectoure has no campsite, and the gîtes are all on the more expensive side, so it’ll be another night outside – which essentially means I have till about 8.00pm, the last light, to find somewhere. And after almost forty days, I do trust the camino – I’ve never actually not found anywhere to sleep by the time it gets dark (minus the very first night, but even then, there was a bench). There’s always a field, always a gite, always a bench. Always water and a toilet, even if they somehow vanish when you need them.

So I was optimistic as I continued, smiling to myself as I crossed fields of (English) mist, dark and thick and heavy. It was a beautiful morning, and I could already recognise some packs, which was always nice. I liked having regulars :] There were the blue group of three I’d passed ages ago, on the day leading into Cajarc, laughing and walking tandem – very cute, I liked them a lot. And there was the British woman from the Discovering-Tuna-Salads morning, who I kept thinking was the Australian (she was not), who had the big navy pack – and the shell, of course. Classic.

They popped up here and there, but they were way ahead, so it was more glimpses-through-the-fog than actual,, sightings? But it was still nice :] I was stuck behind an older guy merrily meandering along for a bit because I felt too awkward to try to get around him, but eventually I managed to, even getting a smile in! Basically a natural :]

Most of the first section was road-shoulder walking, just those beaten up feet on asphalt for hours, nothing like it! But occasionally we’d be in for a treat, and get a little earth path beside it instead. It’s on one of these paths that I pass a few new people too; a bald man with a little thermal headband to cover his ears, which was a teensy bit funny to me, and a woman in white chugging along who I think heard say “fuck this bastard [the hill]” but it also might just be what I really wanted her to be saying because fuck that bastard of a hill!!

Like everything, once I had cleared it and no longer was actively climbing the hill, climbing the hill was super easy. Hindsight can still give you rose,,, shades,,, yeah okay maybe the phrasing needs a little work, shove off <33 Anyway, after every up there comes a down (which is a much less reassuring version of the saying), and this down leads you down a precarious little muddy path, where halfway through you’ll switch departments, as announced by a cheery sign to your left. From what I’d gathered by barely paying attention to my surroundings, Frances’ departments were not states, but more,,, federal electorates?? I think?? Add it to the list of Things To Look Up whenever I next get reception!

At the bottom of this uneven path, there’s a little family enjoying the Wednesday tradition we all remember doing – shoving Big Logs into a mulcher and getting very excited when they Get Mulched. C’mon, you remember it right?? Every Wednesday?? When there is definitely school?? That little eight year old is having the best sickie of his life to date, I think. As you’re nearing it, you’ll also almost have a heart attack because one of the logs rolls very quickly towards the dude with the mulcher and shoves him forward and he almost Gets Mulched – but luckily, he presses the emergency stop just as he gets shoved forward. Jesus Christ!

The pure second-hand adrenaline rush that provides sends me coasting along down the street, over the motorway and over the next hill, where I catch up with the Blue Trio! Perfect timing too, because I almost miss the turn into town following someone else’s backpack – whoops!


-Saint-Antoine-du-Pont-d’Arratz-

Take a guess at the two words I will use to describe this very small, very cute French town – no hints! Kidding – it is very cool though, all painted shutters and doors and flowerpots, and in classic French fashion, made of approximately one street. I walk through the whole thing by accident, past the solitary cafe and out onto the path before realising and turning around, scooting back around the earlier pilgrims enjoying their coffee for the morning. I plonk myself down by the church, where the Blue Trio soon arrive, greeting me with smiles and waves, then moving on to the cafe.

I stick with my pesto tomato sandwich, enjoy my morning of people-watching. Once again, I’m one of the earlier ones, and just my luck – I get to see a few familiar faces :] First on the list is the woman with the Kind Face, who waves enthusiastically and then comes over to tell me she thought I was eating pesto and strawberries! She’s followed almost immediately by Green Dress Woman, who points and laughs, comes over to say goodmorning <33 I’m glad she’s forgiven me for accidentally leading her up a hill she didn’t need to climb!

The person who went the wrong way at the entryway arrives too, thankfully, and as she leaves my line of vision and joins her friends at the cafe I hear distinctly American accents start from the opposite direction, and hoooly shit they have voices for the record. They have like,,, default American. Standard American Voices. Like if you imagine The American Accent (TM) from any show ever, they have it. It’s awesome, I feel like I’m in an ad, and all they’re selling is random medicines – seriously, what was it with Americans and constantly talking about fucking medicine, it was bizarre.

I also see the British Woman and All-Black Guy, who beeline for their various groups, and essentially this is just a massive reunion episode I think! Lots of returning characters, lots of coffee and pastries, lots of money I do not want to spend so down another sandwich and godI’m so glad pesto exists. To be clear; rocket pesto. Regular pesto does in a pinch, but rocket pesto?? Mmmmm. Perfect. Infinitely better than the weak French breakfast.

Headband Guy from the fog arrives and greets two American women sitting by the cafe, and, for the first time in almost forty days of being in this godforsaken country, I hear ‘ooh la la!’ in natural conversation for the first time. And Dear Reader, it almost brings a tear to my eye – what a beautiful language :’]

As I go to pack up, Kind Face re-emerges from around the corner, tells me to ‘wait! wait!‘ – so I pause, confused.

“I have sum-zing for you!”

And she smiles, and hands me half of a pastry, and I swear to God the sun got a little brighter.

“Eet is fantas-tique!”

I thank her, then thank her again because once doesn’t seem like enough, but she just waves me off, wanders back to the cafe. Is this love? I think I’m in love.

The pastry is some sort of burnt-almond-filled-dough-pastry topped with meringue and it’s fucking incredible, she was not kidding at all about the fantas-tique thing!! It’s sweet but not overbearing, and I’m grinning as I get up to actually leave, dusting the icing sugar off my pants as I do (the thing is messy okay, leave me alone!).

I head up and out, towards Flaramans, once again following the three blue backpacks I’ve come to know so well :] We pass dead sunflowers and a few new faces, and I’m pushed on with the help of a lot of Hozier and some daydreams – it’s shaping up to be a very hot day.

I arrive with the goal of finding a public WC, but evidently miss the turnoff and find myself up by the church and rest stop instead. This one has sorbet, and it takes all my self-control not to sit down – but no!!! On it is – I want to hit Miradoux before midday. It’s another mash day, where I shove two stages together, and Miradoux will be a little over halfway – that’s worthy of a break.

As I leave, however, I take one last, longing look back at the sorbet, and see a sign I’ve,,, never seen before?? In the little centre of Flaramans, there’s a patch of green, on which stands a sign advising pilgrims that bivvies and sleeping sacks are permissible here between the hours of 10.00pm and 6.00am!! Which is immensely cool – I’ll have to keep a lookout for more of those!

Decaying fields
And here, sadly, I pass the Blue Trio for what I now know is the last time :[ They’re resting in the shade, and I wave, joke that I’ll see them later. In other words; I fucking jinx it !!!!!! Nooooooo !!!! The road out leads you down down down, past a stand selling some sort of cherry cake-flan thing, which I buy two of because oh my god? Yes please. All-Black Guy is here too, drinking some coffee, and he nods to me as I pass.

A little more Hozier, a few hills, the slowly dawning realisation that I forgot to put sunscreen on again and then suddenly, in the blink of an eye, a second, the distance between one step and the next, the air takes form and holy fucking shit you can see the mountains!!

You can see the fucking Pyrenees!!!

You can see the end!!!

And they’re fucking awesome, towering over everything all over again! I missed the mountains s o bad, the most beautiful part of this entire trek so far was easily the Alps right at the start of the Gebennensis, they’re so incredible to look at!! I’m staring at them as I weave downhill, and as I overtake Green Dress Lady and a Woman in Orange, and I lose sight of them when we dip between vast rolling hills of dead sunflowers, husks decaying dry into the ground, but I find them again at the Miradoux welcome sign.


-Miradoux-

There’s a swift, brutal climb up to the town, but I barely process (lie – sweat dripping in your eyes is hard to ignore), just focus on the mountains. They’re dim, hazy in the sunlight, and you sort of have to squint to make them out from the clouds, but they’re there. My phone isn’t even close to picking them up yet, but my eyes can just about do the trick.

I head up and over into town, sit opposite the little picnic spot currently full of the British Woman and a very speedy guy who overtook me earlier. But my bench is in the shade, and features some lovely little breezes, so I can’t complain :] I refill some very much needed water – fresh and cold, mmm – and get ready for a Long break. I play catch-up a little, but eventually tire of it, opting instead to eat my delicious cherry mystery in the company of a very sleepy tuxedo cat, who sits on the wall by me, watches me.

So I talk to him, because of course I do. Spill my guts. Cannot recommend it enough – not only do you admit your worries out loud, but you also now get to hear how absolutely stupid they sometimes sound. A few of them suck, no way to spin it, sure. But when you hear yourself, out loud, say something along the lines of;

“What if now everyone is in uni and you aren’t, you’re just the dumb immature one (valid concern), and you’ll be playing catch-up forever trying to make up time (also valid concern) and (imagine this all building to a mental crescendo) what if no-one finds pigs named Bernardfunny anymore!?!?”

Boom. Immediately funny. That was a concern?? Seriously?? Pig named Bernard was causing me mental stress?? Pull it together mate.

Bernard !!!!
A woman with a yellow backpack comes and sits down beside me, at about the same time Headband Lady waves from across the street and takes the spot British Woman has just vacated. She (Yellow Backpack Lady) smiles at me, starts to have a rest, when a friend of herd comes over and thrusts an apple towards me. Thankyou?? I mix up my words as I take it, not prepared for the gesture, and accidentally say ‘goodnight‘, essentially telling the poor woman to go away!!! But don’t worry, I don’t notice till she’s long gone, so there’s one more thing I’ll think about forever <33

An hour later, I’m recharged and ready to go – it’s 13km before my bed for the night, and it’ll be another bench night so I’ve got time. As I set off again, I realise why today has felt different; it’s dry. You can see the drought here, all varying yellow-grays, cracked dirt and thirsty trees, brown, flat, unplowed fields, rusted rigs rusted still. You’ll follow the path down a little hill, sticking to the sides of the roads – but only for a few hundred metres, where you’ll cut across a field of the same dead, dry grass. You’ll climb agonisingly slowly to the highpoint, following the black backpack of a different guy all the way down the other side.

At the top, you have a killer view of two opposing churches; one to the left, skewering the skyline, all sharp and pointy and cool, and one to the right, Château de Gachepuoy, an old, crumbling relic of a time past, disintegrating in the heat. And the one to the right won hands down – dead architecture was way more naturally stunning than its alive counterpart could ever be. Keep walking; the rough, parched dirt carries you all the way to the road leading into town.

 

[sunflowerfunk]

Firsts, Seconds and Bootcamps : Part Two
-Castet-Arrouy-

Now, you were going to stop here, but you reconsider once you arrive; it’s chockers, the single little courtyard absolutely brimming with people – Headband Lady, Yellow Backpack Lady, and both Black Backpack guys included. I move on instead, wave at the familiars as I pass, make my way to Lectoure. For about two seconds at least, till I hit shade by the side of the road and immediately decide that y’know what, I could go for a nap actually.

As I doze, I’m passed by Camo Green Backpack Guy and British Woman, who both laugh as they do, with a quick ‘sleep well!’. I’m planning to sleep for thirty minutes, but ten minutes later I’m far more conscious than I’d like, so it’s time to get going! As it would turn out, I’m not missing much; the next few hours are a lot of long stretches after each other, which is incredibly draining on a day as hot as today!! According to one pharmacy I passed, it’s somewhere around 37* right now – not ideal walking temperatures.

Getting drier….
But hey, at least the first stretch is shaded, so that’s immensely welcome for a weary walker. After an eternity, I cross the road, pass a few houses, cross again, enter the fields and enter my second stretch. This time, it actually does feel never-ending; my legs feel like stone, and each step requires all of my mental stamina. I want to lay down forever, this is ,,, intense. I’m at just about 20km, which is always where my roadblock sits, mental or otherwise, and today is no different; not a single muscle in my body wants to walk.

The only – and I stress the only part – thing pushing me forward is the knowledge that I’ll be able to restock food. I’m down to the crumbs of some Pringles (which I down now, feeling faint), a can of tuna and enough of my regulars to cobble together one measly half-sandwich. I’m real fucking hungry, so both of those will be tonights late lunch/early dinner – I’ll need more for the morning.

I don’t stop to eat, which is probably daft, but in my defence, if I sat down to eat right now, I’d spend the night on the path. I knew myself well enough to know stopping now would be the end of today, and that would not work. I also needed water. I was a bit of a mess today, organisationally speaking. Didn’t have the faintest grasp on pre-planning, despite my best efforts.

So it was on to Lectoure! This time, the false alarm towns actually do almost shatter me, especially when they have accomodation,,,,,, but no!! Food !! Water !! Money !! Think, you tired fucker, think !! I pass more fields, over and over again, past one guy setting fire to the sunflowers, thick black smoke rising from the embers. I breathe it in a little deeper than I probably should, but I can’t help it! I miss campfires so bad, camping wasn’t even close to right without them.

I’d basically grown up inside the (allegedly) three-person OzTrails tents, knew how to set them up like the back of my hand, could probably do it blindfolded at this point, the amount of times I’ve helped the students get them sorted. Set them up for fun as a kid, slept the night in the garden. Forced my brother to have competitions to see who could set up the best, gloat when my first aid supplies were better than his. Y’know, classic sibling shit.

I’ve spent more nights around a campfire than I can count, back on the red dirt, watching floating embers mesh with the milky way. Listening to Creation Stories, tales of rocks and boats and goannas, coffee-rock sunsets and the rope swings down the road. So smoke brought me back there, to the fires I built with sticks we collected, to the classes I got to sit in on, the things I learnt in classrooms where the walls were Pandanas palms, swaying in the wind, where the crash of waves competes with the teachers.

But, curiously, I now had a second category of not-quite-nostalgia; one of cold wind and thick pine forests, of a hemisphere opposite my own. Sitting around a very different kind of fire, small and contained, a fire-pit of perfectly placed bricks, rather than the mishmash of stones I knew so well, had made so many times before. It was pre-bought marshmallow sticks, the feeling of their back against my chest, warm and surrounded by a life a world away from me; but feeling at home, comforted by the differences.

It was always fun, looking back on the stages – it seemed bizarre I’d only really met him a few months ago. And even before that, it felt like everything slotted into categories; there was capital c Childhood, of course, that carried us all the way to twelve, then there was the Just Pulling Through chapter, which took the better part of the last six years, and for the last few months it’s finally just felt like,,, Life ?? Oddly enough, being away from everything and everyone was where it all made sense; I was just in the latest phase. And when I did finally go back, I’d just be in another one. That was very reassuring :]

And boom – we’re at the final town before Lectoure. Do try to daydream a little more, wouldn’t you :]?

Hello Pyrenees :]
Tarissan is marked by a fruit stall by the side of the road, and about three houses, so it doesn’t quite warrant its own heading, but from the top you can see two things; (1) the mountains :] and for the first time, your phone can pick them up – even if it’s ever so dimly! And (2), a little more pressing, is Lectoure.

It’s cruel, with such large buildings; the distance always seems shorter, the place closer. But no – another hours walk beside the road awaits you, as you force your knackered feet to keep going just a little longer.

You follow the arrows, up and up and down, and that guy in that field is walking weirdly, right? Like you’re seeing that too, it isn’t just me?? He keeps sort of leaning, jumping. And he’s got dogs too and – hey what’s he holding??

BANG! BANG! BANG!

A gun is what he’s holding. Okaayyy. A hunter – first one I’ve actually seen, but the gunshots aren’t too uncommon. What is new, though, is the fact that now I can see what he’s shooting. And it’s,,,,, birds??

All this time, they’ve been shooting fucking birds?? Every time I’m outside and hear them I convince myself it’s wild boar or big animals and it’s pig e o ns ???? What the fuck is even the point of shooting birds ??? Surely any meat that could be helpful would be decimated with a bullet ??? What??

The hunter shakes his head at me as I pass, disappointed, which is confusing but immensely funny, and I sort of want to shake mine back, really convey the ‘are you seriously attempting to shoot pigeons with a rifle are you perhaps crazy?‘.


-Lectoure-

Anyway, old gun-slinging Frenchman aside, I reach the Lectoure sign about three seconds before I reach the hill and if one more stupid fucking beautiful French town put its welcome at the foot of a big old incline I was going to do something drastic. Don’t know what that is yet, but rest assured I’m considering it as I make the climb!

At the very least, I have company in my privileged misery; British Woman. My only goal right now is just to catch up with her, but I let her get well ahead as I pass the cemetery, pause to take a look. It’s ancient and massive, sprawling across the length of the mountain base – and it’s entirely family crypts. Lovingly, I could not imagine a single thing worse. Burials are bad enough, locked in a single grave plot with my entire family forever,,,,, stuff of nightmares. When I die, cremate me and chuck me into the Pacific!! Or like,, leave me somewhere for a bit till all I am is Bones and then make me into a highly unethical science-classroom skeleton that kids configure to look like it’s waving or shocked or dancing or any of the several less innocent positions. Anything but those two options is off fucking limits.

Then again, I’d literally be dead, why would I get a say! I’ll be all Nothing, which is actually quite cool. I had a somewhat spiritual connection with death as a kid, real Buddhist type-shit, reincarnation, afterlife (is that Buddha??), and then when I hit puberty decided to trade that in for insanely angsty and somewhat troubling relationships with the idea of death, and now it had just sort of evened out.

Don’t believe in the afterlife, don’t believe in Hell or Heaven, don’t believe in reincarnation; don’t believe in shit basically!! If anything, I’m really hoping none of them exist; it sort of ruins the fun to get a Biblical Second Chance. In fact, the only thing that ruins the general beauty of life more than a second go round, is the fact that I’ve just caught up and overtaken British Woman and walked the entire length of Lectoure and there is not one goddamn shop. Fuck.

I sit on a bench just past the thermal baths at the end of the street, desperately long to go in. It’s all urban too, so nowhere to sleep, and I really start to spiral before remembering ‘oh yeah, I need to eat‘. I crack open the tuna salad, chow down on it and a few cherry tomatoes. Finally not hungry, my brain can now actually think – and almost immediately I spot a little information sign with a rough map. Perfect. It even shows the picnic spots – even better!!

It’s back down opposite the cemetery. For f u c k s sake. For the second day in a row, I backtrack, all the way back down, diverting to another street as I do in a last ditch attempt to find food, bur no luck. I do find a gourmet gelato store though, but for €2.50 a scoop, my brain goes ‘NO!!’ and pushes me on down to a half cornerstore/half tabac shop that sells a European version of the smartie ice cream I remember from my childhood, which I pay €2.60 for without blinking. [AN : I imagine my dad head in his hands going ‘M a x’ in his vaguely-German disappointed voice every time I think about this, which only makes it funnier].

The goods have been acquired (oh no)
And it’s fucking awful too, there aren’t even smarties in the handle what have the Europeans d o n e to it?? And I mean, it’s probably for the best – never meet your idols, and all that – but still! I was looking forward to some nostalgia! Ahhh well. I fill up (cold!) water from the cathedral, head back the way I came,,,, again.

As I’m backtracking, I see a sign I missed from earlier, that points in the direction of camping. And that is enough to turn me without a moments pause – I’m so fucking sore, I need a shower. But, for some unknown fucking reason, the place is reserved solely for camping cars. Little insane, but sure. It is also full of some furious looking hikers, sans backpacks, all of whom are absolutely powerwalking around this campground. I’m a little fascinated – the fuck are they doing??

As it would transpire, it’s a fucking trekking pole bootcamp, complete with whistle-blowing instructor (and not the good kind), and these people are working for it. Racing each other, spinning in circles. I have to force myself to walk away or I’ll just stare at them all afternoon. So I walk all the way down to the cemetery, halfway down the climb, and realise the park could have been accessed by the road the campsite was on, try to not tell my feet.

It’s,,,, not great, but it’s something. I’m not taking stock of any of my surroundings just yet, though, because there’s a clean public toilet and I don’t care about anything else yet. When I’m done, I sit outside, write a little, try to wile away the last of the daylight, but soon an almighty click-click-click begins to start and – you guessed it! – the bootcamp arrives through the bushes. They charge up and down the incline, seemingly to see who can do it quickest, while the very intense instructor yells “PUSH!! P U S H!!“

I’m trying so hard not to make eye contact or laugh but m y god it’s a little hilarious. As they leave, one or two roll their eyes at me, widen them in a ‘get me out of this hell‘ sort of way, and that definitely breaks me a little, gets me to giggle. But there’s no saving them now!! They’re off and power-walking away. I get changed, wash my shirt, go to hang it up but as I do, something catches my eye. A tent symbol. What?

Tents are accepted anytime??? Oh thank g o d. I’m getting swarmed with mozzies, the worst so far, and I’m covered in little blood spots like some lunatic who only kills tiny tiny creatures. I set up oh so very quickly, chuck everything in and zip it up, kill the twelve that have made their way in with me. The others are vying for a taste, sticking through the mesh to try to get to me. Rank.

I write a little longer, but I can’t catch up – just too. fucking tired lately. Walking late is crazy exhausting. I’m also crazy hungry. I’m saving the bread end for breakfast, because god knows I need something in the morning before walking, and I’d just have to figure something out for the rest. So I curl up, try to ignore my growling stomach. Can’t win them all! So we meet again! Sorry I’ve been a bit all over the place recently; hormones, or something. I hope you’re well :] I miss seeing you at the end of the day – we should do it more, Unnamed Reader. Like,, tomorrow maybe? We’ll see how you’re feeling, but I’ll be here <33

---

Day 38 – September 27th

Auvillar to Lectoure

30.9km

~ 468.2km total

€3.20

~ €527.14 total

(832.9km combined)

(€1,056.37 combined)

 

[sunflowerfunk]

Thanks for the general patience, I have a feeling I'll be behind for awhile yet! But I've set aside a few rest days for me to catch up a little before I start the next leg - I arrived in Saint-Jean two days ago now!! So a day or so more of writing and posting, then it's off to the mountains :] Fingers crossed !!

 

[Peterexpatkiwi]

I have to admit I was kind of hoping you would post on the weekend but not to worry. Great to see something from you no matter what or when.

I'm sitting on a massive stash of video footage that somehow I've got to churn into YouTube videos and no matter what I do I just can't seem to get started.
You're so damn lucky having grown up with computers and smartphones and being able to type. Computers in my 20s were still in the "fill in the blank" phase, or writing pure code, and as for cell phones - holy hell, the earliest versions of those were basically the size of a briefcase, weighed half a ton and cost a small fortune. Like 3 or 4 grand when I was earning 12 and a half a year.
So sitting and editing video footage for hours at a time it's not exactly my idea of fun. But as you may have noticed from my frequency of posting on this forum I kind of like sharing ... oh well, winter's coming, and I'm a fair weather walker.

When I first started travelling nobody heard from me for months at a time. If they were lucky they'd get one of your beloved postcards. The first time I phoned home, Dad yelled at me because they hadn't heard from me for months and thought I might have died!
I got better - I'd let them know if I was going to drop off the grid for a couple of months - and they got more used to it.

So take all the time you need my young friend, just remember - there's a few of us that really enjoy reading your stories!

 

[sunflowerfunk]

Day 39 : Call Me Mr. Banagrams
-Lectoure-

My first fevered wakeup happens at 12.19am, where I find myself bolt upright, bleary and delirious, without a sleeping bag, disgusting and damp.

I can’t get to Condom AND get food.

To make it I’d leave too early, and get to the town with a shop in the midday pause. I momentarily think about leaving now, but that’s so absolutely insane that I ditch it almost immediately, settle for a shorter day – gives me longer to sleep anyway.

I set new alarms, figure out a whole new plan, half asleep and feeling horrific, then fall asleep fitfully, tossing and turning. I wake before my alarms anyway, at 8.30am, in a tent slick with morning dew, pegs pulled out in the night. Grotty. Packing up is quicker this morning, what with the cold and the wet and the mosquitos, so I’m ready by 8.45am, enjoying the end of the bread and the last of my food, passing away the last 15min before shops start to open.

Or, so I’d hoped. With no map or navigational abilities, and no-one in sight, I gave up. One Petit Casino later, and I emerged with some milk and cookies – which was, besides some babybell cheese, all they had on the shelves!! It was close to shutting down (or close to opening?), so they were very understocked. Not great for them, or me – nor was the knowledge that there was a campsite in town, if I’d only walked five more minutes. But hey, sleeping inside, legally, for free with a toilet is not something to take for granted!

I figure I’ll coast along on sugar until I find something – Hartmut Engel has been wrong about the availability of shops before, he could be wrong about them again! The way out of town is really fucking cool though, you retrace my exact steps from yesterday (aaargh!), take them about a minute further, find several Perfect Benches (are you kidding me), and then enter this massive old watch-tower-thing and climb through it, down rickety old stairs into the basement and back out onto the lower hills of Lectoure. And then, like always, it’s off into the heat.

The Way out!!
It’s a breezy little morning, and I feel good; even if the shops being closed/impossible to find meant I could’ve made it to Condom, this gives me a bit of a break – the last few days have felt very long, and I’ve just generally felt drained lately. So I deliberately force myself to go slowly, especially because I’m camping, and check-in closes late – I’ve essentially got eight odd hours to walk eighteen and a half kilometres. The only thing moving me along is the heat; it’s burning hot, with no shade to be found, just a Lot of road-walking – hot, sticky asphalt and blinding sun.

I walk past a few houses, a few settlements. Past a few gates with no fences which is one of my favourite European things because ???? Okay dude, all you’ve done is make it harder for you to get to your house, andpeople can still just walk in. Only thing funnier than the concept is watching people walk up their driveways and open the intricate gate instead of stepping a metre to the left. Hilarious.

After an hour, Lectoure vanishes into the shimmering horizon, and I sizzle with the yellow grass for kilometres. I don’t see a single car, a single person, a single cow. Until the church spire comes into view forty-five minutes later, I could be the only person in the world.


-Marsolan-

Marsolan is small (shocker), but it has a church with cold water and shade, so right now it’s perfect :] There’s an older guy sitting on the bench with three bags next to him, who’ll soon be joined by two very friendly women, who will be very judgemental of my airing feet, but they’ll come later.

I enjoy a bikkie or two, drink some delicious tepid milk on the verge of curdling. Yum yum yum! Then it’s just my head tilted back on cold concrete walls, listening to music and trying to pretend I’m not being eaten alive. This is the problem!! It’s either sunburn or Victim, and I don’t particularly enjoy either!! And today, victimhood beats me, forces me to stand far too early, shoulder the pack and remembering water makes it heavier.

Listen, I know the whole bladder vs. bottle thing is a whole heated debate, but how the fuck do people survive without a water bladder?? Like,, on any route but the Frances?? Do I just drink an insane amount of water?? I feel like I go through way too much to put my trust in water bottles, especially with the frequency of French water fountains and their general tendency to disappear whenever they’re needed. But hey, to each their own!

Your safety, your responsibility
On the way out of town I pass a house being held up with a solitary stick, which is sort of exciting, and then it’s just back to ups and downs for awhile, hemmed in with more of those insanely green fields. Here, you’ll pass One Tree, and maybe accidentally scare one of the women as you go to pass them (add it to the list!), and probably be chuckling all the way till you reach the old man soldiering on ahead, sweat literally dripping off him. I fucking feel you mate.

To give you an idea of how exciting this stretch is, let me just tell you that the highlight of the morning was seeing a Big Stack of haybales around a corner. Seriously, like a ‘oh thank god‘ moment was a bit of hay that was bigger than it usually is. You’re on gravel roads for what feels like a decade in this heat, but eventually there’s some houses, some shade you can dutifully pause to smell the flowers (literally – we’re still going slow, conserving energy,,,, probably!)

A little past the houses the gravel road splits again, visibly crossing several hills before vanishing into the horizon. Noooooo. The last kilometre or two have never felt so long – y’know what?? There’s nobody around; it’s Beach Boys time. I out on my little mix, sing along all high-pitched and wheezy, trying to reach the borderline sonar harmonies they somehow have, passing a parked tractor I don’t realise has someone inside it, keep doing the eeeee-eee-eeeiiiiee until you get lightheaded and faint, then process the guy laughing and accept defeat.

I keep half-mumble-singing as Tractor Guy moseys on past me, watch him trundle off into the distance, try to distract myself with anything, anything to get me to this stupid fucking town (crucial; I mean this in the Australian way, where anything I like is bullied!!!). After an eon, I finally enter the shade of the forest, and after one final climb, enter the little flat section before I reach the town.

Fascinating,,, (it’s actually quite cool really)
Cross a road or two, pass a few pilgrims sitting in the shade, just generally meander down through various orchards and plantations until you hit an absolutely stunning flower garden with a €2 entry which is now number one on my list of Things To Do Today. Massive blooms of purple, red, yellow, blue. The trees tower, sweet benches in the shade and ice cream in the welcome area. I am so coming back here. And then I see the church :]


-La Romieu-

As I do, I’m immediately passed by a Person in White and the original All-Black Guy, who fall into step together ahead of me. But I’m not worried about catching up, not today – right now, I just want to shower, doze and write. We wind through the park, where a crazy looking bright red structure made of ‘sleep cabinets’ sits ?? Which sounds like a wildsleep opportunity someone that isn’t me needs to test out. Not that I don’t want to – but this park does not have showers, so it loses.

Approaching La Romieu :]
Anyway, a little past the park you turn left at the roundabout (to the right are signs for the campsite, but you need food first), head into the ‘centre’ of town, the little courtyard, where countless pilgrims are enjoying the shade of restaurant overhangs. Unfortunately for you, however, it’s 3.00pm on a Thursday – not a single shop is open. Okay, no, I stand corrected; a gelato shop is open, and today my frugality is too busy melting in a corner to give a toss. A scoop for €3 or three for €6,,,,, when you think about it, it’s almost like I’m saving money!

Mango, peach/apricot and orange,,,, yum. I fucking LOVE sorbet – is this adulthood?? I think I like sorbet more than gelato now, and that’s basically like maturing, right?? Nah, probably just the summer; gelato is a winter food. I find a perfect little blue metal bench, take my shoes off, enjoy the afternoon. La Romieu is known for their cats, who poke out of every garden, from between every fence, meandering over red terracotta roofs. The town responded to the population by putting statues of cats everywhere, in every window, by every fountain. I’m having a great time – I love the little bastards, environmental bombs that they are.

After thirty odd minutes of people (cat) watching, I do decide it probably is a good idea to get to the campsite and reserve a spot for dinner – fingers crossed the price isn’t too brutal! So, again, I tug my boots back on and hobble out of town. And, also again, I wonder to myself what the fuck Hartmut Engel was on – the book says 250m, the signs directly tell you 600m. My guy, what are you doing??

But luckily, none of that matters at all, because when I arrive, the campsite is shut early for the season. And so is the restaurant. Fuck. That presents more than one problem; firstly, I haven’t had a shower in two days. One isn’t that bad, like I can explain it away with German DNA, but two is,,, it’s rough. I don’t want to imagine three!! Secondly, I haven’t eaten in a Very long time now. I am a testosterone filled teenage boy – this just doesn’t work, especially not walking for so long. The closest supermarkets would be in Condom. Smooth segue into problem three; there’s not really space to sleep till Condom either. There’s about 20 beds in La Romieu, and maybe 6 I can afford. But I’ve already seen pilgrims take the variant directly into Condom because there’s no space so – uh oh!!

It’s 3.45pm, and I am not going to make it 14km in the next two odd hours, which rules out the campsite. I also can’t afford the gîtes between me and Condom, so on to the safe sex capital it is! Fuck. So much for a fucking slow day, hey? As I start my speedy walk out of town, I ring the three gîtes in my price range. The first two are full. Tired, ravenous, and praying for a miracle, I ring the third – and they have space. Hallelujah!! The omnipresent angel choir strikes up a chorus.

They’re a little out of town, so it’ll take a few minutes longer, and they want me there by 7.00pm. That means no stopping for shops, no food. I have packet soup I bought on Bean Day as an emergency ration, so I now just essentially have to pray they have a kettle I can use. Or a jug – though on the sliding scale of furious nation to peaceful whimsical nation, France was veering towards the former, so maybe they can keep the kettle.

Little cat statue <33
But between me and my maybe-dinner, there are 14km and just about three hours. I can’t do that at my fastest, which means I will eventually have to run. God-fucking-speed, me! Fair warning, the scenic observations are going to diminish greatly in detail here, because at this point speed was my only focus. Even the Beach Boys are shut down, replaced with the loudest fast-paced songs I had downloaded (which, for the record, was very hard when I’d been in a Mumford and Sons mood for the last few weeks and had planned accordingly) blaring as I flew into the first town.


-Castel-sur-l’Auvignon-

I clear the first five and a half kilometres in just under an hour, half running up the hills, barely breathing. I hit the town and beeline for the toilets, disgusting and sweaty. Biggest problem with stopping when you’re going really fast? You can feel the sweat bead and roll and drip, and that already isn’t close to my top ten physical sensations, and isn’t helped by the fact that I’m stuck in a small poorly ventilated room that smells like piss.

I stumble back out, looking drowned, t-shirt wet. Air has never felt (or smelt) so good. I fill up water, again – run out already, god bless water bladders!! – swap my socks because I could probably wring these ones out if I tried, and try to apply more sunscreen, but I’m sweating so much it just pearls off. God that’s fucking gross. I wipe it all back off, give up, resign myself to the burns. And then the pack is back on and I’m gone less than five minutes after I arrive.

There’s no way I can keep up that pace, but it should be enough to push me ahead of time – but either way, the way to the town of Fromagère is a blind, hazy mush of sunlight and sunburn, heat and hunger. I refuse to stop, just keep going and going and going, even as my legs shake and my back aches. I even pass by a stunning lake stretching off into the valleys, surrounded by tables, and it would have been perfect if I had food.

Also, for funsies, I’ll tell you that the German guidebook does something very German, and alerts me that yes, the town is called Fromagère, but not to get my hopes up – no cheese is sold here. Thankyou, Hartmut, I appreciate the heads up. As I’m scrabbling up the last hill, my brain, unprompted, beams the line “call me Mr. Bananagrams, the way I’m madly scrambling” directly into my cerebral cortex. Stupidest fucking joke in the world, but it does the trick; and I laugh, push on to the top, clear the trees, realise I can see the Condom church (not nearly phallic enough, would be my main criticism). Thank you Bananagrams!


-Condom-

The last two kilometres are rough. I take back any time I’ve preciously called myself wrecked, because right now I am wrecked. I have to keep pausing, bending over my legs, trying to ease the ache because holy shit o u c h. Right at the final descent, there’s a lovely little sign that tells you where all the gîtes are – and thank god too, because I have been seriously stressing about how to find it for the past hour.

At the bottom of the hill, I pause momentarily, lean on the railings of the little sidewalk. I can’t be much late – get moving. I stagger across the few streets, head away from the centre, make my way there. The signs are a little confusing, in true French fashion, at one point pointing directly to a hedge and going ‘there! it’s there!‘. Which, of course, actually means ‘walk another 300m‘. Why, France, why?

Always cute seeing evidence of pilgrims!
But when I finish those 300m and turn left, it’s capital c Crazy. It’s,,, huge. Like, massive. And it’s being inundated with ballet dancers and couples with yoga mats. Enormously confused, and not totally convinced I’m in the right place, I walk in, to find reception shut. A quick check of the time reveals it’s 7.04pm, which definitely gets a little laugh. I love the French.

I call the number and the phone of the guy standing five metres from me starts ringing, and, upon making eye contact with him, my brain firmly decides to Not Hang Up, leaving it awkwardly ringing really loudly as he walks towards me. Smooth. He’s very friendly, shows me around, definitely a half-conversation he’s carrying though; my tongue can barely flick out a syllable. I need a shower and a mattress. Please.

He does show me one thing that brightens my mood – a fully stocked kitchen I can use, including leftover bread from the pilgrims dinner – I can eat tonight !! I get my own room for as much as you normally pay for a bunk – what is happening?? As it would turn out, the reason the place is so big and more like a complex is because it houses alcoholics struggling with addictions, and operates as a half-community centre as it does. It also might have been a prison – or the guy’s translation was crazy off. I would believe it though – the rooms are a bit cell-like.

Anyway, after a little bit more chit-chat in which I am desperately just wanting to run away to the showers (sorry Guy!) the friendly man leaves and I can breathe. I shower and – bad news. It’s perfect. It is the perfect shower. It’s hot, it has a handle, it has water pressure. I know I said if I found it I’d stay a week, but I can’t afford it here – I’ll have to shelve that statement for a campsite. I wash some clothes, hang them up to dry, make my bed (with actual sheets my god everyone should stay here – Ancien Carmel, if anyone is taking notes).

And then it’s soup time – except other people are eating, and it feels rude to interrupt, so I sit outside for a while, write and post some blogs – crazy, I know! – try not to fall further behind. Finally they clear out, and I go in, make my,,, potato cheese pasta soup, and I really don’t know if it was because of the mind-melting hunger or what but it’s the most delicious thing I’ve ever eaten and hey??? Maybe soup needs to join the rotation.

I do soon realise that I’m the only thing stopping host guy from packing up and going to bed though, so I, once again, almost burn the back of my throat trying to eat as quick as possible. I wash up, grab my things and vanish; get comfortable upstairs, and write well into the night – or the morning, if you were one of those kids at sleepovers that went ‘well actually-‘ (it’s me, I was that kid).

It’s 2.00am now (7.14pm, almost two weeks later), so it’s time for me to go – do me a solid and ignore the discrepancies between postings. Turns out, I’m not immune to burnout!! Who fucking knew?!

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Day 39 – September 28th

Lectoure to Condom

28.9km

~ 497.1km total

€35.53

~ €562.67 total

(861.8km combined)

(€1,091.90 combined)

 

[M2ME]

I’m in awe. Having read your blog I realise I need food and sleep more than you.