pocket-full-of-seaglass

-Bourg-Argental-

Last night, my alarm set for 10.07am, I had slept like a babe. It was warm – my clothes-in-the-sleeping-bag thing had worked perfectly – which left an extra jumper available for use as a pillow. I was comfortable, and tired, and I had the best nights sleep of the entire two weeks.

Then I woke up at 8.37am, the time of my usual alarm – uh oh. Please let that not be my automatic now !! But honestly, I didn’t even mind. I felt awake, and happy. Happy! In the morning! What the fuck was happening to me?

I got up, got changed. Packed up my tent. Had a spot of breakfast and brushed my teeth. Went to the bathroom while my toilet-neighbour took the kind of shit that had him quietly praying in French with his shirt on the floor. Godspeed, brother.

And then, as I was hand-washing the less-gross-but-still-disgusting clothes from yesterday, I had a,,, curious interaction. The German woman I had met briefly yesterday was back, and feeling very friendly. Her name was Ulrica (I think) – although she had a second Celtic name given to her in a dream, which I cannot remember – and she asked me more about my camino. As it turns out, she was also on the pilgrimage! Just,, with a car!

As I scrunched far-too-brown water out of my shirt, she asked me how old I was.

“Eighteen,” I responded. Then, like a child, “and a half!”

“Oh how wonderful! You have your whole life

ahead of you!”

:]

Eventually, after the better part of thirty minutes, our small talk dwindled, and I told her I needed to be on my way – it was somehow already 10.30am.

She flapped her hands, “Go, go! But first – may I [unintelligible] you?”

Huh?

“Can I,” gesturing wildly, “[unintelligible] you?”

Still incredibly lost, I asked her to talk in circles around it, till I could piece it together.

“Affirm you!”

“Affirm me?”

“Affirm you!”

Expecting some ‘you are strong, you are brave, you are powerful’ girlboss style affirmations, I agreed. And it was only when she held her hands up together over my head and asked me to look down that I clocked what she meant. Oh fuck. She was blessing me.

So down I looked, as she prayed for me. ‘May your journey bring to you God’. She had red nail polish on her toenails. ‘May God guide you, always’. She leant on the left side of her feet, always tilted. ‘May the angels watch over you‘. She,,, wiggled her toes as she prayed?? I was getting very uncomfortable on several levels.

And she finished, hugged me, and then in true Christian style – asked me for a ‘pilgrim selfie’. Sure. Why not. Cheers for the blessing Ulrica, I’ll try to.,. deserve it?

Suitably blessed, I packed the last of my things and hung my now wet (but clean!) clothes off the back of my pack. Today was going to be warmer than the last few, and what better timing! Today was going to be brutal; an almost 800m elevation gain, followed by almost 600m of descent. At least everything would dry.

And with that weirdly positive spin, I set off. A quick stop by Carrefour for some non-literal-but-literal pain – which had taken me two weeks to realise was like a baguette but More Of It – some pesto, some tomatoes and some oh so yummy peach iced tea (there was a woman restocking the orangina and I got too afraid to grab one), and I was back across the bridge, ready for the start of my climb.

I was in a fantastic mood. Better than I’d been in,, potentially ever. It was something about the campsites, I’m sure of it. If last night was the best, then the night and subsequent day at the Yenne campground was second. I fucking loved camping!

After a short, steep climb up some stairs, you wander along a lovely little forest path above the river for a quick kilometre or two until you get to ,,, Bourg-Argental?

-Bourg-Argental, again-

Turns out I am a liar, and the campsite was not actually in Bourg-Argental, just next to it. You follow the shells down the main road, where you pass an ATM (score), and several lovely looking cafes. Unfortunately for you, it’s 11.00am on a Monday – not a goddamn thing in the world is open. But somehow, I’m still feeling great.

You keep left along the road, past the church and it’s bunting, then you dip down a grassy path that follows the Deôme upstream. A small sign will tell you there’s a waterfall, and you’ll get incredibly excited, then immediately realise growing up in the pacific has spoilt you absolutely fucking rotten.

As you think about that, climb up a small embankment and stick to the wall between you and the main road. This morning will be mostly in the shade along grass, and it’s brilliant. It heats up, but not badly; you can manage the little chunks of sun. You wind up into the hills, but it isn’t steep, just takes awhile. The wind is alight with the smell of rotting hay. Mmmm. Try to ignore it.

Eventually, the path passes by a few little towns; Mounes, Badol. A place named Board which has just a board with ‘Board’ written on it in the middle of town that definitely won’t take you the better part of a day to realise is not actually just a weirdly perfectly translated joke.

Not that anyone’s yet sick of hearing me say it, but it’s beautiful. There’s these cool tunnels that I mistakenly thought must have, at one point, been railraods – but none of them have any indication of said rails nor are they actually tunnels. Just seem to be weird tunnel-shaped caverns directly into the sides of mountains. I go into the first one I see and hear the sound of something Big moving very fast in the far corner so promptly haul ass back out. At least knowing I’ve awoken some age-old monster from it’s slumber got me to move a bit quicker.

It’s still a few kilometres before my first stop, so I have time to gain a bit back. It’s been a slow 300m climb so far, but as St-Sauveur-en-Rue nears, you really start to feel the pump of your legs. It’s only been an hour or two, but something about today makes it seem like nothing. I am genuinely confused – I feel great. My legs are working as usual, my shoulders aren’t being arseholes. The world feels so,,, good?? What the fuck??

-St-Sauveur-en-Rue-

The last kilometre before the town is especially stunning – it feels like a postcard. Pines as tall as giants tower above you, and through the cracks you can see the ever-present red roofs and white concrete. There’s a tall bridge with wrought-iron rails spinning in patterns as a river flows a hundred metres beneath you. Cows mosey along, bells ringing into the surrounding mountains and echoing back.

So rounding the corner into the first few houses of St-Sauveur-en-Rue is sort of a shock; straight into tennis courts. But they have the funky little street-library that so many other towns also seem to have, which gives it several bonus point. And then – wait. Do my eyes deceive me ?? Ahead of me I count, not just one, but several colourful backpacks. It can’t be,,

It isn’t :[ My brief hopes of reuniting with the Fantastic Four are crushed as I clock that there are five backpacks, and none of them match. Damn. I’ve missed seeing them (and the Germans) every few days. My weird (for a pilgrim) starting times means I’m averaging seeing one pilgrim every two days. It was nice to have a few regulars.

But hey! New people is cool, and maybe they’ll become regulars too. I’m nearing the first three now – but a ‘bonjour :]’ just gets me a nod. Okaaay. All good :] (what???). They pause in the shade, as I continue up. This is where the climb really sends you for a fucking spin; directly up. For kilometres. Oh boy.

Somehow, though, I’m still having the time of my life. My cynic is maybe a tiny bit in control as I write because I still for the life of me figure out why I was doing so well. Crazy. Maybe it was my hard-earned efforts over the past two weeks, maybe it was my evolving endurance and stamina. Maybe I had already grown a lot, without even noticing, and the fruits of my labour were beginning to ripen, as I became fitter and healthier and happier. Or maybe Ulrica just really came in clutch with that blessing. Take your pick!

The first stretch of the climb was brutal, no way to string it. Steep, uneven rocky paths going vertically up – though at some points it winds along the edge, curves to hug the mountain, so that’s not entirely vertical I guess. But definitely enough to count. By the time I made it to the little hut two kilometres in, I was jittery like nothing else. It’s around one thirty now, and I’m starving – so I go for an apple. I need something to push me on, and today that something is lunch. I’ll have it when I reach the highest point, to celebrate. For now; fruit.

I will say, this is the only time my positivity cracked pretty much all day; worlds shittest fucking apple. Tasted like someone had chewed up every other apple in the world and paper machéd them back into a singular apple. Foul. Absolutely chucked it the second I could (except I didn’t, because this is Leave No Trace shit, so I just put it in a pocket till there was a bin because I’m not a grade A asshole <3).

Coasting on the disappointment from the apple, I was joined by the other five. And, for the record, obviously you shouldn’t judge people based purely on where they’re from – books and their covers and all that – but that rule does not apply to Germans. All. Five. There must be something in this French air that draws the Germans; with the addition of these five, I had seen nineteen pilgrims – NINE were german. Twenty and ten, if you counted Ulrica. I’d heard the phrase, ‘you walk in France, you walk with the French. You walk in Spain, you walk with the world‘, but clearly they’d got their shit mixed – everyone you met was German.

It was immensely funny, and only ever (mostly) affectionate, but seriously, what was u p with the sheer volume ? Steeling myself, and, in a true test of who was in control, I promised to speak German with them the next time one of us passed each other – and off I went. Now, if the first climb was rough, this was ,,, sandpaper ? Not least of all because earlier, as I had gone to eat the apple I had such high hopes for, I’d realised my water had spilt absolutely fucking everywhere and I had none left.

But hey, to his credit, somehow no water didn’t phase the optimist half as much as the fucking apple did so! I carried on, covered as usual in my sheen of sweat. Speaking of sheen, turns out I really misunderstood the cast of The Way. Massively popular movie, brings a Ton of (literal) foot-traffic to the Camino, stars Martin Sheen. Martin. I didn’t clock it until right now. Damp Twilight guy was not in it. Fucking Michael.

Desperately trying to envision Martin Sheen as anything other than knockoff Aro, I made my way up the pine forest, which unfortunately did not help. But what did? Competition. That’s right babey, we’re BACK. Today my opponents are the very cute German family who are way too goddamn Spörtlich and seem to not even be breaking a sweat.

As I break even with the first one, I hold true to my promise.

“Hallo :]!”

And then I forget every scrap of conversational German I’ve ever known in my life, scramble haphazardly through a basic swap of details and ditch the competition; now my goal is to run as far away as possible. Not even in a cynic way either, just like,,, a basic assessment of my capabilities. Fight or flight; the latter wins hands down.

It’s okay though, because soon we’re at Le Tracol, and the three of them take a break in the shade. Smart. But without water, I’m trying to limit my time up high, and there’s no taps here. Only two kilometres away from the highest point, and my break, I push on. After momentarily going in several wrong directions, of course.

This last push is pure evil. My legs are on fire, every bone aches and I’m,,,, smiling ?? Deciding it must be an early symptom of dehydration, I spot a small trickle of water coming down from the side of the mountain, disappearing up into thick undergrowth. So, despite its mildly yellow colour, I fill up my bottle. Better something than nothing. It tastes sour, and catches on the back of my throat. It’s going to be a fun climb down.

But then – after what feels like nothing at all and an eternity, I’m at the top. The wind whips around, stirs the small purple wildflowers, eddies around the mossy floor. It sounds like the ocean, really sounds like the ocean. Waves of air, crashing into pine. I can almost smell the salt, feel the spray. God I miss the sea.

The moss makes a perfect napping spot, the air sweet and soft. Shoes and socks off, my aching feet stretch into needles – but they’re numb, and don’t feel a thing. And out comes the pesto. I will never get sick of pesto, or tomato. What a brilliant combination. The Germans pass me as I eat, and not a single part of me stirs. Fear or optimism, call it what you like.

From here, it’s a 1.3km descent into Les Sétoux, the final stage for today. Or at least, it would be, if I stuck to the stages. I’m technically a day behind now that I’ve spent two days mostly resting; first in St-Genix-sur-Guiers and then yesterday in not-Bourg-Argental. And I have, for some reason, decided that even though I took those breaks, I will finish in the recommended amount of days. To do that, I have four days, including today. So, even though it’s almost 4.00pm, I’m planning to keep walking till my legs give out, or the sun goes down, or both.

But first – Les Sétoux. And water. Mmm. The idea sends me whizzing downhill at the speed of light (almost). It’s somehow just getting prettier and prettier the clearer it gets, and I can see for what feels like thousands of kilometres – all the way to alps so far away they look like clouds until you squint. Incredible. How the fuck is this real life?

And the first houses come into view over the hill.

-Les Sétoux-

To be frank, the first street or two gave me quite the scare. No taps. Come on – there! Eau potable! My god! I had long since downed the dodgy yellow water, masking the taste with pesto and (French) pain. It was cold, and clean, and fell directly into a small trough absolutely filled to the brim with tadpoles. Perfect.

After a quick pitstop (water, bathroom, sit down on a bench and reconsider every choice I’ve ever made, listen to a song or two, consider just sleeping here, ponder, reach the same conclusion I do every time), I kept walking. I wouldn’t reach another ‘big’ town (one that had water) today – the closest was 17km away. So I’d have to vaguely ration.

It was around 4.30pm now – four hours to find somewhere to sleep. Sweet :] The first few kilometres were a breeze, steep downhill and surrounded by rolling fields and pine, always pine. It smelt so specific, but I couldn’t figure out why – it didn’t feel familiar, just,, known.

It was rocky going, and back into the woods for a bit. Once I cleared them though, it was stunning. Sunlight dappling (I fucking love that word sorry if you’re sick of it i will Never stop using it) through the trees, lighting on two small cobble bridges. Just my luck! I leant over the edge, expecting the usual stream, and felt my entire body freeze.

There was a pool. Like,,, big enough to make motions that resemble swimming sized pool. Holy shit. I could swim swim. Almost. Sort of. I could swim more than I’d been able to since Yenne, and that was enough for me. I followed the road around the curve, crossed back into the grass. Reassured by the trampled stems leading to the water, I ditched the pack and shucked off everything but my undies.

When I tell you now that it was the coldest body off water I’ve ever touched, I need you to believe me. Whian Whian in winter at 9* was basically a thermal pool in comparison. Sweet fucking christ. If the Deôme sucked yesterday, oooh man. I’m solidly willing to bet it was only a few degrees and I am not a cold person at the best of times.

Though it took me a (long) while, eventually I just jumped in – and thrashed, screaming. Underwater, of course. It was that kind of head-underwater-instantly-gives-you-brain-freeze kind of rush, and I jumped back out, whooping very quietly. After a few ‘holy shit, holy shit, holy shit’ repetitions, I went back under. My body was on fire, every nerve prickling. I was laughing, and I probably looked mental, but there was no one around and I was just so happy I couldn’t bring myself to care :]

The second dunk was it though, and I was clambering out, vibrating with the biggest shit-eating grin on my face. Towelling off in the sun, absolutely freezing, I realised how lucky I was. Not every day you get to be purple, changing in a field in the middle of France, feeling the most acutely alive you probably ever have.

And then I was dressed, and my blisters were shouting again, and I was back on the path, and nothing could ever go wrong, because I was here and I was alive and I was happy and I was fucking freezing so couldn’t stop even if I wanted to.

I was following footprints, always. Every time I glanced down, I’d see the tessellating lines all mashed together. The forest really added to it; I felt like an extra in the Gruffalo’s Child.

‘Aha! Oho ! Marks in the snow! Whose are these footprints, and where do they go?’

Riding the waves of nostalgia and my love for the Gruffalo and the Stick Man and in general their perfect animation style, I crossed a ridgeline, passed a few cobbled villages and farms, then found myself nearing a tiny town. The first house had mini bunting. I adore the French and their bunting thing, it was so hard to not smile. ‘Look at these colours! These colours in the triangles!’ People were so cute.

-Coirolles-

That town was Coirolles , and I dead almost missed the shells. If it weren’t for a portly French man picking beetroots in his garden waving me over and pointing me back in the right direction, I would’ve gone kilometres without realising – the shells were a little sparse today.

Thanking him profusely, I wandered on down. It was another dip and rise, this time into a picturesque little valley, complete with grazing horses, then up into the woods. It was getting darker now, and I was expecting to be shitting bricks a little, but the sun stretched it’s fingers through the branches and flitted far above my head, lit the way. Light and unafraid; optimist me was confident I’d find somewhere before dusk. Somewhere beautiful. I wanted to watch the sunset <33

The way the woods had worked so far was for every ten minutes in them, the path led you out for another twenty. Once I cleared these, it was really starting to get dark quickly – I’d forgotten that the sun vanished from the valleys first. I had a clear stretch ahead of me, but I could see the next set of woods. As I walked, I debated. Try to get through them before dark, and potentially finish it by torchlight? Or just wait it out till morning?

Eventually, my common sense caught up to me, and I decided not to sleep in dark creepy woods. I kept forgetting that these forests were not like mine – they were crowded, and dark. Also, I had no fucking clue what animals lived in France. Or what noises they made. I’d get way too scared – I was going to cowboy camp anyway.

-???-

As I walked away from the shells, I found the perfect spot – behind a fence. Zappy? I reached out a hand. FUCK.

Undeterred, I clocked that at the bottom of this slope was the path – that meant, technically, it was only fenced off from one side,,,, yeah I totally jumped the fence. Sorry to whoever owns that,, slope ?? I won’t be here long! And as a man and his dog cycled past and he waved, I was reassured. All was well :]

I set up my bed for the night; rolled out the mat to inflate, covered it with the sleeping bag. Got changed into my warmer clothes, and had dinner. The sunset was pink-purple-blue and I wrote as I ate (mm pesto), scribbling about poets and pirates and fights in the fog. All that daydreaming was catching up to me <33

And then, the shiver. Something was watching me. I could feel the eyes. Oh shit. I froze for a second – I had food out in the open. Near the woods. What if Something was coming to get me?! And then, as I slowly scanned, I made eye-contact with the dark, black pupils, jumped. Fuck there’s two of them. And then, I processed.

Two young deer, with faded white spots. They stood on rickety legs, completely still, at the edge of the corn-field not fifteen metres from were I sat. Holy shit. We watched each other for awhile, and I got the feeling I had the better end of the deal, flowers waving between us. How is this real?

Then, the moment passes by, I shift slightly, and they flee, bounding back into the comforting shadow of the woods. They buck as they go, and I watch them disappear into the trees. Woah. I sit in awe for a bit, waiting to see if they come back. They don’t – but just to be sure, I pack up my food and put it at the foot of a tree further up the slope; I’d rather not wake up to something investigating right next to me.

With the sunset is just getting brighter, I laid down, got comfortable. Tried to conserve warmth. Watched as the sun vanished, as the colours faded. There was a thud from the general direction of the woods – probably a branch. Then suddenly, out of fucking nowhere, I had a visit from Fear. Capital f Fear is like my cynic and my optimist, except they’re united against him – he irritates them both. He’s a tiny child who cannot handle anything. And right now, he’s fully convinced he read somewhere that there’s bears in France.

Which, like ?? Normally ?? Would not be a problem at all, because I could simply look it up and – oh my god what if there’s bears in France and I can’t check ?? I do remember reading about bears here – I’m going to die tonight. No, no, no, I just need my inner two to rationalise.

‘Well, at least it’s somewhat poetic to die after one of the best days of your life!’ Says the optimist.

What the fuck?

‘You didn’t update the blogs, so your family will think you died happy and quick.’ Says the cynic, ‘If they find you, that is.’

,,, Thankyou?

‘Is it better to fight back or just let it eat you?’ Asks Fear.

Shut UP!

And after a hard days slog, my optimist shatters, and I lay stiff as a board, terrified, going back and forth and back and forth with myself.

I could move?

‘Too late; it can probably smell you already.’ Says Cynic.

Cheers.

I set my alarm for 6.30am – if I wake up tomorrow sans being eaten, I want to escape as soon as possible. With the light. Unsurprisingly, I don’t sleep great. I wake up every thirty minutes or so, work myself into an almost-panic. My anxious habits come back; I get itchy, and warm, and can’t regulate my temperature. Except this time, I’m in thermals and a sleeping bag and I’ve convinced myself if I get out I’ll die. Not ideal.

I try my usual tricks; count the stars, find patterns. But they’re still unfamiliar, my favourite made-up constellations missing. At some point, I pass out. Not the best way to end it, I know but! Where would be the fun if my optimist always won? (Everywhere).

---

Day 15 – September 4th

Bourg-Argental to ???

24.8km

~ 299.2km total

€8.30

~ €423.03 total