pocket-full-of-seaglass

-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.

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.

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 great backdrops for my little observations <33 Because more than anything? That variant reminded me of Australia.

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.

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!

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.

-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 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.

-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.

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.

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.

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