pocket-full-of-seaglass

<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, hearing nothing, 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.

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.

-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 :]

-Seyssel-

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.

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