pocket-full-of-seaglass

-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.

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.

-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.

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?

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 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.

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’

-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.

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.

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.

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.

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Day 2 – August 22nd

Chartreuse de Pomier to Chaumont

19.9km

~ 46.5km total

€33

~ €46.60 total