pocket-full-of-seaglass

-Étang de Marais-

Not the comfiest park bench I’ve ever slept on, but it did the job. With the bonus of there being absolutely nobody there – 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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 ??

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.

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 :]

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Day 11 – August 31st

Étang de Marais to Revel-Tourdan

14.4km

~ 215.0km total

€20

~ €351.09 total