pocket-full-of-seaglass

-St-Julien-Molin-Molette-

Bit of a bumpy start this morning – it was icy. I’d definitely need a refresh of gear in Le Puy, as this shitty sleeping bag was n o t cutting it. Nor were my (numerous) thermals and fleece and layers. At least the days were warm!

It was somewhere around 8.30am, and the sun was high enough that I could force myself from the sleeping bag, begin to repack. As I did, I got a few odd looks, all from the same guy. Although he seemed to just be sweeping a bunch of sand back and forth repeatedly behind a fence so I figured I could let him be.

As I got myself a little cleaner, I watched the market really kick off. Stalls and stalls and stalls, reggae-punk echoing through the town, cigarette smoke wafting. The wooden crates turned out to be filled with records, with every genre and decade, and most tables were covered in weird vases and interesting glasses. Plants covered the carpark, homely baked goods drifted around. It looked like it ruled.

But I was still almost entirely out of cash. I had about €10 to my name, and markets were not the kind of places were cards ruled. Broadly, nowhere was; I was kicking myself for not getting more out yesterday morning. Damn! Momentary warmth off and damp shirt on once more, I pulled myself to my feet and began my search for the épicerie. Walking up from the path, I realised I was already on the main street, so simply walked down. Except,, everything seemed to be closed? It was early on a Saturday, so everything should be open.

It was round about here that I clocked it wasn’t a market – it was a festival. It stretched down the side-streets, drawing in every inhabitant of the local area. Just as well too, I found out that the centre of it all was a small undercover area I was going to sleep in if I didn’t find a bench when I did. Thank god.

Luckily, the shop I needed was open, and it promised bread. Good thing too; I was officially out of everything but some cashews, and I was starving. I had been too tired to eat last night, and fresh bread for breakfast sounded like heaven. As it turns out, the épicerie was,, rustic. It was a small room with a few sad, dusty shelves with what packets and boxes of what seemed like a strange assortment of basics; packet soup, a few potatoes, some tea, nutella, a fridge of meat and some chocolate. A few fruits too, but a little too expensive for my tastes.

I settled for a cold orangina (of course). Turns out bread is only on reservation, so that was the end of that masterplan. My next shop was Bourg-Argental, so on I’d wander.

It turned out to be quite an alright morning. There was a short, evil climb up the hill leaving St-Julien-Molin-Molette which burned in the heat, but after that it got easier. A slow meander down a few hills, back up again. The path sloped, rather than straight-up, so I could almost forget I was gaining elevation.

After helping a man lift some wooden doors up some stairs, I returned to the path – in the shade. What a treat :] It felt very slow, not that I minded. Peaceful, and all that. The birds were louder, and I walked without music past cows and squirrels, past hay-bales in empty fields and creeks rolling downhill.

At some point, I came to the point overlooking Bourg-Argental, and just stopped and stared for a moment. It was quite something; nestled in the arms of the surrounding mountains, bright and vibrant. I followed the asphalt into the pine trees, listened to the needles shift in the wind.

-Bourg-Argental-

The road into Bourg-Argental sort of comes out of nowhere – you’re in a forest and then you round a bend and there’s a servo and the houses start. Boom. Back in the hubbub.

Bourg-Argental is another of the bigger towns, and my first stop. The way leads you directly past the camping place, a lovely looking place on the banks of a little river. I pause by the welcome sign, linger. It’s around 11am, and I’ve only walked a few kilometres yet. I cross the small footbridge over the river, sit on a bench. Debate.

After a little back and forth, I decide to carry on. There was still the gîte, after all, and the next camping place. And I still needed food – I was really growling now. So I would continue, until I couldn’t anymore. And on I walked, following the river for a few hundred metres before coming to a second bridge and a steep uphill. Take a guess which way the shells pointed.

The uphill would be a problem for later me – current me needed food. And just across the bridge was a tiny Carrefour. Yes. Groceries sorted, back significantly sweatier with the stress of human interaction and overwhelming hunger, I followed the opposite end of the river until I found a small spot in the grass to sit.

Here, I had a breakfast for royalty. A fresh baguette (delicious), with cucumber (incredible), tomato (final one from Auberives-sur-Varèze, decidedly mushy, not ideal), more comté and salt and pepper. And Orangina. More of it. I was developing a serious problem, it was impossible not to buy it whenever I saw it. I had long since decided euros didn’t count when they were for cold citrus drinks. And so I sat and feasted and listened to the water, talked briefly with my family. It was nice. It was slow, and calm. I felt peaceful. I had a pocket of internet, so I looked up the next campsite.

Ooooh. Okay. Didn’t look like much (sorry St-Saveur-en-Rue), and had no real way to contact them to find out opening or reserving options or rates. Eep. That left the gîte and here. To be honest, I think I’d decided the moment I saw the welcome sign. Back it was. Wandering along the roadside this time, I noticed it even had a pool. Mmm. I needed a swim.

But alas, no one was there. Reception was 9.00am-11.00am, or 5.30pm-7.00pm. France <33 I tried the number, but butchered the fuck out of my French. Not every day you ask ‘y a-t-il de la place pour une tente ce soir ?’ and get the response ‘I don’t speak English, sorry’. Ouch. My confidence smarting, I returned to the meadow. I only had five hours until reception opened, so I got comfortable.

The meadow was gorgeous. Red squirrels darted from tree to tree, quirked curious heads. If you stayed still long enough, they’d come closer. Not close, but closer. Little red robins bipped about, pecking at nothing. I watched one try to hop from one branch to the next and fall which was a first for me. There were these plants waving everywhere, covered in bees, that left swatches of yellow pollen on my pants. And behind it all was the river, bubbling along over the rocks. Not a bad spot for a kip :]

I rolled out the mat, tugged on a jumper. It was only 24*, and the shade still bit. I even had to pull out the sleeping bag, after awhile. But then, I slept, dozing in the sunspots. At 5.00pm, I got back up, packed my things. Waited for the people to start arriving. I was still so sleepy, and the sun was not helping things. But my legs were starting to relax, and my feet had calmed down (I still couldn’t feel most of my toes, but hey)!

After fumbling through my French and his English, we reached a common consensus; I would camp tonight, with access to everything and internet, for €11.50. Bargain. The second I reached my pitch, I ditched everything and went exploring. Tent set-up could come later – where the hell were the sinks. After familiarising myself with the basics, I realised I was right beside them. Perfect!

I got changed in a heartbeat – into the less-dirty-but-still-significantly-gross of my dirty-and-significantly-gross clothes – and dumped everything else into the massive sink. It smelt foul. Don’t recommend carrying around clothes that haven’t been dry in a week or more in a plastic bag for days, they don’t do great.

My rudimentary attempts at hand-washing them yielded no results, they were too far gone. Fine. I’d fork over the extra few euros – into the washer they go. I had forty minutes to kill; what now?

Now, I’d set up my tent. It wouldn’t rain for the next few days, so I was safe to only half set it up, leaving most of the lines flapping in the breeze. More than alright with me – less to do in the morning, when I’d no doubt be cursing everything again. After that, I snacked on some pesto chips that were,,,, interesting, and decided I wanted to sit and listen to music and write. I still had a blog, after all. And where better to do so that the river?

It seemed a little unfair to give the Deôme the same title as the Rhône, at least this section of it, given at its deepest points it came up to my knees. But still, it was clear, and pretty, and most importantly, water. I’d take it <33 As it turns out, it’s also like fresh melted ice. I dipped a foot in, practically scalding it. Jesus. And then, I realised I’d definitely have to swim. Fucks sake.

A quick skip to the campsite – number 14 has direct access through the hedge, if anyone else is also too lazy to walk all the way around – to grab a towel, then back I was. Right. This would suck! And suck it did, though my sunburn was grateful.

It took me eons to get fully submerged; far easier to jump in and deal with it all at once – not as much fun inching your way in. But, after a lot of grouching and quick breaths, I was in. Shirtless. Pretty big for me :] It was freezing, and my weird little patches of skin on my elbows were turning purple, my scars blue. When I was entirely shaking, I got out again, bright pink this time.

Shivering, I made my way back to camp, quickly put my clothes in the dryer, had a short but lovely coversation in German with a gray nomad who was exploring France from her campervan, then sat on a little plastic chair and watched the sun set. Still shirtless. Yesterday I had almost cried over the way I looked, but had refused to let tears fall, citing dehydration. Making strides, I guess.

The next forty minutes were up, and I returned to the dryer, sure I’d have to pay for another round. Not the case – they were c r i s p. Warmer than anything I’ve ever felt, I clutched the fabric to my chest, breathed in the smell of fresh laundry. Yum. Then the urgency of the situation hits me, and I run back, stuff them all inside my sleeping bag, roll it tight. Tonight wouldn’t be cold, I wouldn’t let it.

Then, finally, it was shower time. Hot showers – for about two minutes. Fuck that, I’d just swum in the goddamn Deôme – even cold water felt warm. And then I towelled myself off and tugged on my clothes. And dear reader, I do not think you understand. These are the first clean and dry clothes I have pulled on for twelve days. Chaumont was the last my skin has felt soft, warm, clean cloth. I was on cloud nine.

Practically floating out the door, I made my way back to camp, ate another cucumber/cheese/tomato sandwich in the dark. Delicious. Had myself some knockoff oreos for dessert, brushed my teeth and went to bed at 10.00pm. Ha! Not a chance – I got distracted, and read camino blog after camino blog for hours. But now I’m going to bed – it’s around 2.00am now, so we’ll see how late I start tomorrow. And hey, it’s exciting – my first narrative arc (dirty laundry) is over now, what’s next?? What themes will I introduce next episode?? I was starting to Realise things; was I entering the Mind stage?? So many questions – but we’ll just have to wait and see :]

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Day 14 – September 3rd

St-Julien-Molin-Molette to Bourg-Argental

7.6km

~ 274.4km total

€44.76

~ €414.73 total