pocket-full-of-seaglass

-Pratclaux–

Last night was, oddly, pretty rough. The knees didn’t help, what with my general painful tossing and turning, but more than that it was fucking hot. It was 13* outside, all the windows were open, there was no heating and it was boiling.

I spent most of the night convinced I had a fever, and when dawn finally came and I splashed cold water on my face, ready to brave breakfast, I re-met the two women who immediately asked me if it was also really hot in my room last night. No fever, thankfully.

The two were friends from Canada, one of which had done the stretch from Le Puy-en-Velay to Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port before, and wanted to redo it together. They were sweet, and more importantly; spoke English. I had not particularly missed conversation itself – it came lumbering a little awkwardly back to me, but understanding what was being said to me was a nice change.

We had a breakfast that was definitely not worth the €5, although the bread was – naturally – delicious, and swapped some basic tidbits (I even got some gossip about our host). Eventually, they left to get ready, and I,, didn’t. I was sleepy, and anticipating a shorter day – I could savour my apple juice. I left about half an hour after they did, when I finally had my shit together (took half a baguette for the road while I was at it).

Must have been about 8.30am when I turned back, a little down the road, realising I’d almost forgotten to get my stamp. Still not used to the paperwork, I guess! From there, it was a gentle rolling meander down the slopes to Monistrol-d’Allier, my first stop.

-Monistrol-d’Allier-

Split in two by the Allier river – from which it gets its name – Monistrol-d’Allier is the closest ‘hub’ to Pratclaux, only about two kilometres away. It’s got gîtes on gîtes on gîtes, as well as plenty of pilgrim food options, cafes and bars. Plus an épicerie! Weirdly, though, everything but the pilgrim snack bars seems to be closed even though it’s past nine and – no no no no! I’ve committed a cardinal pilgrim sin – I haven’t checked the day. It’s Sunday. Shit.

Not exactly comforted by my exceptionally empty food bag and the knowledge that I don’t have another shopping opportunity until Sauges, four hours down the trail, I start to move a little quicker. Shops close even earlier on Sundays, and without it I’ll be hungry till Tuesday. Not exactly ideal.

The climb out of town is steep – even the ultralight runners are having a little difficulty. I always feel a bit bad walking past them, the seasonal pest they have to deal with every warm month. Sorry!

But, at the halfway point, you’re rewarded with the Chapel of Saint-Madeline. Locked, of course, not that you’ll know till you climb the extra set of stairs. Oh well! It’s carved directly into the rock outcrop of the mountain, and looks completely bizzare, covered in small blue spikes. Except – are those baby blankets?

They are baby blankets. They’re also rubbish, and lace, and yarn, and holy shit it’s one big yarn-bomb. It turns out it’s an art display by signifying the life and death of coral, and it’s correlation with the pilgrimage. It’s,,, beautiful? My pictures are terrible – full of sun-glare and shadow, so you’ll just have to picture it.

Huge chunks of stone, long since broken off from the mountain that’s been standing for the better part of 400 million years. Shattered on the ground below, splitting off in chunks, each now covered in a thin woven layer of lace and colour; white slowly swallowing all. I’ll leave Annouck Lepla’s (or Lepla Annouck’s, I never know with the French) blurb here, because I found it quite a cool visual :]

“A projection for the departing pilgrim, a promise to go on to complete their quest, perhaps to the sea itself. […] Nestled in the cavities, a coral community [forges] links with the former inhabitants of the place, […] vestige of one of the oldest living [species], this unusual presence invokes long-term works, [time shaping the] geological landscape, […] the precise and delicate gestures of lacemakers, the slowness of walking that breathes new life into the mind.”

God coral fucking rules. I was a little concerned that with so much time to think, I might somehow poke holes in what I wanted to study, but there’s not a chance. Coral Ecology, here I come :] Very distracted – almost enough to not notice going up the next set of stairs – I rambled to myself about conservation and zooxanthellae and the ocean and man I missed the ocean; I felt like I was going crazy without the salt.

The next 12km were,, a lot. There were several more tour groups, and a lot of solo/paired pilgrims on top – my total was already pushing ninety. On day two. To be honest I’m,, not really enjoying this section as much? It’s stunning, don’t get me wrong; the Podiensis is deliberately inconvenient, forever taking you the long way round, but it’s made entirely to showcase France’s best natural beauty. It passes by nine UNESCO world heritage sites, countless towns on the ‘most beautiful’ list, etc. etc. But the pure volume of people was something I was struggling with. I liked being able to see people only ever really at night, leaving the day for rambles and isolation. It all felt so loud!

Then again, I guess this is that whole pushing your comforts thing. I was not, as it turns out, the only person in the world. Lame! I’d have to learn to share – y’know, like a toddler does.

Passing rest stop after rest stop, I really considered a pause. But most of them were full of French groups, and I was ready to share, but I was not quite ready to mingle with forty people at once. I had a limited set of skills, and intense socialising was not one of them; I’d save that for a rainy day.

I was, as I walked, capital t Thinking. Not to jump the gun here, because that would be so unlike me, but I was very worried about the second portion of my Camino. I knew it was only day two of the route, and so I couldn’t judge it yet (allegedly), but the sheer amount of people was already proving to be a lot. It would be nothing compared to the Frances. And as un-pilgrim-like of me it was to long for the isolation, I was. So many people talk about the friends they make on the Way, and the connection they feel, and the communal dinners, and that’s all perfectly good! But those aren’t any of the reasons I align my Camino with – mine was rather selfish.

I wanted to be alone, to stew in my lame little brain and try to figure myself out. I didn’t mind the occasional chat, or a night together in a gîte, but I loved the feeling of being completely alone. It had its moments, like anything else, but nothing beats me under the stars, in a field in the middle of nowhere, feeling like the only person in the world.

So, the more I heard about the Frances, the less it appealed to me. There were pros, of course; more people spoke English, it was (relatively) easier than some of the other routes, not every single person would be French or German. But I just could not get used to the vague stress that now accompanied me whenever I needed to stay the night somewhere, and the thought of that tenfold was more than a little daunting.

So, I came up with a plan B. I wouldn’t make the decision fully yet, just sort of,, test it out a little. Now, there’s fucking tons of Camino routes, interlocking all across Europe. Other than the Frances, none that I could find start in Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port. But one that looked particularly appealing started about 75km north of it, in Irun.

The Del Norte, or ‘North Way’, is an 820km walk following the Spanish coastline, and is broadly considered one of the most beautiful routes – with the bonus that it connects directly with the Primitivo. I’d looked at it really strongly while planning, but had decided to go for the longest consecutive one I could manage; hence the Frances. But once I got the idea in my mind, I couldn’t get it out. Over and over and over I rehashed the debate, and the more I thought about it the more excited I was. Oops. Jumped the gun.

Eventually, my grumbling feet unionised and demanded a break. Fair play, I could use a few cashews while we’re at it. Y’know what, I’ve been walking for a while and I must be close, why don’t I check opening hours in Sauges and – holy shit it closes in an hour. I’m 4.9km away. I walk 3.7km an hour. Get up.

I did not learn my lesson yesterday. I ran. Again. Past town and town and confused tour group and perplexed cat and all the other new recurring cast. At some point, my knees gave up entirely – no more running. Not even jogging. All pressure is pain. You fucking idiot! Even so, I hurry on. Don my metaphorical pink/purple/blue sportswear and get my Kath on. I have a goal, I have a time. I’m setting off speed cameras (hobbling).

And then finally on the horizon, Sauges appears. According to Google Maps, I’ll arrive at 12.29pm. Shop closes at 12.30pm. I need to make up time. Sorry knees! Back to a jog, faster speedwalk, trying to clear the rubble before I make it back to smooth pavement. I’m stressed, and some part of me clocks that the French usually close early anyway. Shut up!

-Saugues-

To save you some time, I won’t recount the pure adrenaline (panic) I felt half-speedwalking to the contact, or the heartbreak I felt having to pass by pretty postcards and not buy them. What I will tell you though, is that I walked through the doors at 12.25pm and they bolted them shut after me. Holy shit.

Pesto, tomatoes, cheese, burger buns (no pain left </3) juice, haribo (I needed a jumpstart occasionally okay), a few other bits and bobs. Then, there. Sorbet. Fucking y u m yes please! Almost forgot apples, but remembered just in time. A perfect little basket, and perfect timing – as I checked out they clocked out. 12.30pm on the dot. Every French-based joke in hit movie Muppets Most Wanted got infinitely funnier by the day.

Now my only goal was shade. I was so far from the arrows, but I couldn’t care less. Shade and food, please. Up the road and to the left is a little green circle of grass, and it’s as close to Heaven as I’ve ever felt. Cool breeze immediately required a jumper and beanie, but it was worth it. A sandwich for the ages, one to rival the cucumber one from the night in Bourg-Argental. I felt amazing. So amazing, in fact, that I promptly fell asleep for two hours.

Have a good,, lunch (??) and go back to bed works too, I suppose!

When I woke up, my legs felt ready to fall off, and I palmed through the guidebook to check my options. There were plenty, but it was a typical end-of-stage destination; a Lot of pilgrims were here already. I was craving quiet and I doubted many would be carrying on; if they did, they’d be ahead of me – I’d go for a meadow tonight.

As I was leaving, I had a bit of a Moment. I chucked the sorbet. Without eating any. After the sandwich, I’d clocked it was a binge purchase, and even though I spent money on it, I didn’t risk it. Pretty happy with that – I’ve managed to avoid an episode the entire last three weeks :] And sure, maybe I eat a little too many Kinder chocolate bars here or there, but baby steps <33

As I set off, it was boiling. I was right – I didn’t see another pilgrim all afternoon; best one in a while. My earlier, overwhelmed, cynical me had started to walk to escape everyone, but here, alone again, I could walk just to walk. Everything felt so bright and beautiful again – I was happy. Mumford and Sons was, for some reason, my brains choice for the evening, and I watched the sunlight filter through the trees as I reminisced.

-La Clauze-

A short seven-and-a-half-kilometre-wander later, La Clauze presented itself in a small dip in the landscape. It was cute, and it had a little table selling shells for a few euros each, guarded by a silly wooden guard and absolutely covered in scrawled messages from people that spanned the world.

I filled up water here too, considered stopping. But I still had an hour of sun left, and that was too long to wait somewhere. Subtlety, and etcetera. So on I went, through cool little farming villages and past a truly incredible amount of cheese shops (closed). Passed many a concrete cross, confused a lot of cows. It was casual, not-much-to-report walking. I was in my head, mostly, just sort of rearranging mental furniture.

-Le Villeret d’Apchier-

Regarded as the ‘best’ off-stage spot to stop for today, Le Villeret d’Apchier was the plan from La Clauze. It was just under an hours walk away, which meant I had enough time to scout a bench and come back as the sun set. According to my little book, it had a fully set up rest stop. The perfect spot to sleep till the early-bird pilgrims were up.

Unfortunately for me, the rest stop was directly next to a gîte/restaurant that was very clearly quite active, with zero indication of that slowing down at all. So on it was. Chazeaux was just three more kilometres, and surely there’d be a bench there,,, right??

On I went, over a tiny stream where little fish flitted from my shadow, and where a small sign advised me, as a potential fisher, not to swing my fishing rod too hard or I might connect to the overarching power lines and die a gruesome death. Cheerily, I walked on.

-???-

It was getting late now, sun dipping into the horizon, and the path to Chazeaux was in a valley, which meant it got dark fast. In the waning golden light, I passed two meadows. One looked perfect, but had a trampled fence – I wasn’t too keen on actually going onto private land, the zappy fence night was because there was only one fence. Also, it was right by the forest. No thanks, I’d learnt my lesson there.

The second was open – a big grassy meadow, soft green grass. It was surrounded with the classic low stone walls, but it had a large opening. There were houses sort of nearby, but not too close. But I passed, even though the presumed owner gestured to it and smiled and nodded as I walked by, purely because I’d tried one too many times to do the blokey nod and tongue click thing, practicing as I walked, and hadn’t seen him at first, and now I was convinced he thought I was insane.

But it’s just my luck, because past a few more closed off ones, I find the Perfect Field. It’s big, and sprawling, and it’s got the same open, low, stone fence. There’s a tree for cover, and only one house in eyesight. Two towns, one to my right and one to my left, but on opposite sides of the valley. A road separates me from them, where funny French cars dawdle across, winding their way up to the cemeteries. It’s really pretty, and I’ve found it just in time, because as I set my pack down, the sun officially bids me goodnight.

The light is dim and blue at the edge of the horizon, and I hurriedly assemble a sandwich before the darkness hits. I roll out my sleeping bag, pop a killer blister in the dark, manage to put socks on without pain for the first time in a week, and enjoy it as I watch the stars emerge (post hand sani, obviously). It’s a good night :] I’ve walked 28.5km in my fastest time yet, and I don’t feel that wrecked. I mean, my knees are shot and I think I’ve killed them forever, but other than that, I’m holding up well <33

Anyway, it’s been nice chatting with you – we should do it more often. I’ve really got to sleep now; I got distracted over potential calls and Christmas again, and I’m about to get sucked into a wormhole of Camino research (not that I know it). I hope you manage to wander a little today :]

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Day 21 – September 10th

Pratclaux to ???

28.5km

~ 55.5km total

€25.43

~ €56.43 total

(419.2km combined)

(€688.66 combined)