pocket-full-of-seaglass

-Chavanay-

I woke up feeling,., awake? Which was not only a first in probably a few months, but also made no sense – I had been up till just past four last night, unable to sleep. I never could, when the moon was full. Refreshed, and full of energy at 7.30am; was this what being a morning person was like ??

The cars and trains were still roaring past, shaking the leaves from the trees, and the sun was creeping up my bench. Lovely start. I pulled on my shirt, which had solidly turned to cardboard with sweat, in case you needed a visual, and got as ready and clean as possible. Pros and cons to sleeping on a bench by the side of the road, I guess.

After immediately missing some pretty obvious shells, I found myself winding through some very cool streets – complete with bunting, of course. The shells reappeared at a crossroads and I had a decision to make; turn away and go withdraw cash, or wait until tomorrow. Choosing the easiest option, I followed the shells. I’m sure that won’t become a problem later.

Anyway, today the shells are not on my side, because they do not pass by a single water source. At all. Now, I haven’t drunk water since about ten minutes out of Assieu, and I’m absolutely fucking fiending. Orangina is great, but sparkling anything does Not cure thirst, and even if it did, I have none left. So I begin the age-old mantra, ‘the next town will have water. Just make it to the next town. The next town will have water.’, and so on and so forth.

The first stop takes place a few kilometres in. at the Chapel du Calvaire, where I cut an orange into slices and enjoy the view and pretend this is like drinking something. Hate to say it, but if you get tired of repetition, you’re not going to like this instalment.

And I have to admit, after polishing off the orange, I did feel a little better. There’s something about them that just feels so specific – they’re only ever good on holidays. At home, oranges taste gross, soured by years of six-a-side soccer and sweaty sticky fists. But here, they were sweet, ripe. I was starting to understand orange juice people (almost).

And so I continue, being passed by two cyclists who are so much older than me it’s almost embarrassing. Until I remember old people strength is crazy. And also that I’m meant to not be comparing myself to other people so much anymore. Oops! And then, on the horizon : my first town.

There’s no water there either. Damn! I weave my way through the tiny smattering of houses once more just to check, but come up empty-bottled. It’s not the end of the world though – there’s still two towns between me and Bessey, the first actual stop. I’ll find something :]

Between this village and the next, there’s nothing. It’s around 27* and counting, and it’s muggy as all hell. I find a tiny stream that looks relatively clear, and follow it upstream a little to check. Seems okay. I fill up my bottle about 1/4 of the way – I didn’t want to risk getting sick, just needed enough to get me to Bessey.

It’s gorgeous today, muggy heat and all. The fields of corn have officially given way to endless apple orchards, and it rules. I have to confess to an act of mouth theft here, as I pick one of the little ones off a tree that looks a little out of place – it’s delicious, crisp and fresh and crunchy. And more importantly; it has juice. Anything to trick myself into thinking I’m hydrated.

And then, before I know it, the path splits off, and I veer left to find the Bessey welcome sign. Finally.

-Bessey-

Bessey is a small town, with a few central streets that rally around the church. It’s pretty, especially surrounded by the orchards and dry grass – it feels like an oasis. Or, more accurately for my situation, a mirage.

What the fuck does France have against taps today? I’m desperate, so I fill it up halfway with (proverbial) shitty public bathroom sink water. Tastes foul, but it’s liquid. Then I sit in the shade of the Marie, eat a peach and the rest of my bread and try to think.

I’m not ashamed to admit my pace today could best be described as snail-like; I was essentially hobbling. 30km yesterday had done quite the goddamn number on my legs, it would seem, and I was already aching. I had a feeling this would be another La Ferme de 1000 Couleurs type of day. So I began scanning for places to sleep, trying to distract myself from the thirst. I landed on a camping spot in St-Julien-Molin-Molette. It seemed reasonably priced, and wasn’t too far away. Plus, I could finally wash my clothes and relax a little. Set on my plan, I backtracked to the welcome sign and followed the GR65 markings.

Turns out, no I didn’t. There’s another path, with the same white line, just with black instead of red. For most of the day, they’ve been going in the same direction, but it had been a little too long without seeing the red one so I paused, reconsidered. The guidebook told me I did need to go back – the correct way out was to turn right before the church, then immediately left again.

Except, when I got back to the church, there,,, was no right turn ? It was solid brick houses all the way down. Probably a translation thing. I wandered about a bit until I found a right, and there was that red and white! Perfect. I began to walk down the path, seeing what looked like a large group of pilgrims in the distance. Even better. But,, there was one pilgrim,,, coming towards me? A returnee, I assumed, or maybe just someone who also needed to refill water. As he neared, we made eye contact and nodded, smiled. Then, as the realisation dawned, I turned, pointed questioningly, to find him doing the same.

My roomie!

We laughed, swapped names. I feel terrible, but I’ve forgotten his – it was something intensely German, maybe Klaus? Regardless, he was lovely, and teased me for taking (multiple) wrong turns. I was, as he explained, headed straight back to Chavanay. As we rounded the corner back into Bessey (for the third time), I realised my mistake.

There was a right turn before the church – if you came from the right direction. I had somehow diverged from the actual path w e l l before I had arrived. Thank God for maybe-Klaus. We split again, him to rest and me to continue, as I made my way (in the correct direction this time) to Le Viallon.

Or at least trying to. Today was Not my day – 1.4km seemed to stretch into the distance, endlessly. I was so fucking thirsty. I felt delirious, and it struck me how this was actually dangerous. What the fuck was I doing, continuing to walk? Had I not learnt anything from Australian summers? Dehydration does not fuck about. Alas, that genius eluded me, and I carried on, sans shoes this time.

After an hour, I had to stop. I was on the top of a hill, right by some stables – the horses here were insane, and everywhere – and there was a breeze. I was really worried now, and sat in the shade, ate my apple, trying to savour the juice.

The lack of water was really starting to get to me, and I was thoroughly ready to curl up and sleep, but the thought of being stuck somewhere actually really dehydrated put me back on my feet. Worst comes to worst I still had one final orange – after that we’d just have to see.

As I passed by village after village with nothing – no taps, no living people, no nothing – my hope was beginning to dwindle. Back on went the shoes, in the name of speed. Nothing. Not even Le Viallon. I’d been walking for way longer than a kilometre and a half, surely.

I climbed a mountain, for funsies it would seem. At almost-the-top, I passed the first house for what felt like hours and practiced my fire drills; stop, drop and .. eat an orange. I opened the guidebook, tried to find signs I was past where I needed to be. I was, by almost seven kilometres. Exhausted, sweaty, sticky I continued up, fuelled by new hope. I was close.

There was one final climb, one final push, to the top of the mountain, to Croix de St-Blandine. There was a gîte there, but I wouldn’t stay. I’d go a little past, entirely downhill, to that campground I mentioned earlier. I can’t have been more than 4km away – an hours walk.

And there, right before the vertical turn uphill, was a house. With a person. My god. Shitty French and bad miming saved me, as I begged her for water. Oui, oui. Out came the hose. I felt like I was floating. All my camino angels seemed to be because of water – maybe probably something I should plan better for. I filled up my bottle, thanked her profusely, and started the climb.

I made a mistake just about the second I crossed from her driveway back to the path though; I drank. Like a child running blue-lipped from the surf, or after soccer practice; I guzzled, huge gulps in quick succession, gorging myself on that sweet, sweet, tinny hose water.

Then, promptly, I became quite sick. So much water, so fast, after nothing for awhile will swell your stomach, fill you up. I felt horrific, just sloshing about, but I had to keep going. Camping places also closed, and I couldn’t check when – they didn’t answer the phone. It was 6.00pm.

-Croix de St-Blandine-

Croix de St-Blandine is marked with a small stone that tells you there are now only 1600km to go until Santiago, and a lovely looking gîte, where pilgrims were dozing on small beds placed directly in the afternoon sun. It looked like heaven, but it was reservation-only and I was still set on a camp.

The path splits into three at the pinnacle, and after a minor debacle in taking the wrong path,, three times,, I finally found the shells and carried on (directly down the middle, then turn to the right, if you happen to also be lost at Croix de St-Blandine). I skirted around a few fields, passed some sheep, then started off townhill. It was another La Motte; at each little settlement my feet sighed with relief, then died all over again when I had to keep going.

Finally though, I climbed my last hill and saw it. St-Julien-Molin-Molette. Split directly in two. My half was down a stupidly steep road. Go figure. By the time I shuffled into town, my limbs were dead. I couldn’t feel my feet, which at this point in time is concerning, but brilliant. After staggering around a little but finding zero indication of the campsite, I gave up. Park bench it was.

-St-Julien-Molin-Molette-

These ones were thick and cold, solid concrete. Initially, I really thought they’d be comfortable. But that didn’t matter so much, I just needed to rest. It was just past 7.15pm though, so I couldn’t yet. That is the downside to public sleeping; your schedule is not entirely your own. At least, not if you get stupidly cold like me and need a sleeping bag. If you can doze and not freeze, go for it :]

On my way to sit down, I had passed a few seedy looking people, a bunch of teenage boys getting drunk by the merry-go-round, and far more children chain smoking with adults than I ever thought could congregate in one place. All to say, I didn’t quite fit in. Then again, evening in a kids playground alone,,, maybe not quite the place you want to fit in.

I also passed what seemed to be the remnants of a food stall, probably twenty metres from where I now lay. I people watched for awhile, as minivans came and went, as large rugs and pillows were shunted around, while the teenagers very loudly made fun of me. Brilliant. It was nice, though, as the sun started to dim. It was the first church I’d seen a community around; kids played in the courtyard, adults drinking tea on the benches. It was cool :]

But then I realised the market stall wasn’t packing up, it was just getting started. More and more people started to arrive, hauling urns for coffee and endless boxes. More minivans, more short French women wildly gesticulating as small children weaved between the legs of old men carrying wooden crates. It was very exciting, with the small downside of a little longer till I could sleep.

So I passed the time with refilling my water, listening to music. The luxuries. I read the book a little more, the translations becoming clearer every time I did. I needed to find a place tomorrow. My clothes smelt terrible, and were making everything else smell too. Plus, I had no more dry socks, and I really did not want more blisters.

I had three choices;

1. A camping place a little before Bourg-Argental, around 6km away,

2. A gîte in Mounes, around 8km away, or,

3. A different campsite near St-Saveur-en-Rue, 14km away.

Tomorrow would be two weeks of walking, and the 30km was still kicking my arse into next week, so I was okay with a rest day. I just didn’t know where.

That was a problem for morning me, however, because the loud teenage drunks had just left. And the stars were out. So it was time for me to sleep, on this cold, hard, bench, before the midnight festivities began. It was due to be frigid again tonight, with lows of 10*. I was not entirely looking forward to it, but I had tugged on all my layers and all that was left now was to pray.

So goodnight! Thanks for reading (again), I know this one was a little on the boring side. Might want to get a little used to it – tomorrow I doubt much will happen at all, rest day and all. But I’m sure you’ll manage. Maybe you’ll even get to hear some more about my laundry, if you’re really lucky <33

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Day 13 – September 2nd

Chavanay to St-Julien-Molin-Molette

21.1km

~ 266.8km total

€0

~ €369.97 total