pocket-full-of-seaglass

-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 :]

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???

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!

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.

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!

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 table complete with little roof. Ooh la la.

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,,,,

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Day 10 – August 30th

Le Grand-Lemps to Étang de Marais

22.8km

~ 200.6km total

€0

~ €331.09 total