pocket-full-of-seaglass

-???-

I had more than a few odd dreams last night, and I woke up thinking of swallowed worlds and dying stars, and to the sound of the first pilgrim of the morning crunching his way along the gravel path. Up and at ’em, I guess :]

It was 7.30am, and 12*. I don’t think I would ever get used to the temperature, but at least the sleeping bag helped. Crazy – turns out they keep you warm ??? Who knew ??? I got up, got changed very quickly into my lovely sweaty shirt – which for the record, was dry (I know, gasp) – and got ready for the day. My first chore was to get water; I’d drank almost all of it last night.

On second thought, maybe starting the whole drinking-water-every-time-I-get-anxious-so-I-have-something-to-do-with-my-hands-and-stay-hydrated thing wasn’t great to start right before a long distance walk, because now I’ve Pavlov’d myself – not only do I need a stupid amount of water all the time, but now when I drink my brain has a little ‘!!!’ panic sensor that starts beeping.

You live and you learn <33 Anyway, Chazeaux is just around the corner from where I slept, and doesn’t have anything, just picnic tables and an odd brick building [AN : it’s a toilet and water. I don’t realise until I write this tonight. Do not make my mistake]. I don’t stop – right now I just need to make it to a toilet (still getting aftershocks of that fucking pizza) and get some water. Up, past the gîte where a few other pilgrims begin to trickle out. It’s 8.30am now, and it’s really getting going. I pass eight leaving Chazeaux. Another nine gone by the time we arrive at the doorsteps of the pine forest. It’s only two odd kilometres before we enter ‘Le Sauvage’ or ‘The Wild’, which is a pretty crazy thing to put on a signpost. Then again, y’know, “what even is ‘wild’? What is nature? Discuss,,..,.”

-Le Sauvage-

As it turns out, Le Sauvage is,, not that wild. It’s sort of just a big farm/restaurant in the middle of some (gorgeous) golden wheat fields, surrounded by pretty cows :] I had a lovely old time wandering through, dipping back into the pines as streams ran in and out and around me.

I was still spending most of my time daydreaming and stumbling on rocks; this morning was no different. The pines had shifted from their previous towering counterparts, and were now smaller, slanted. Covered in lichen. But the needles were the same, and the pinecones. ‘C is for conifers, more than five hundred kinds.,.,.’ I was humming along, pleased to have something non-Northern-Rivers stuck in my head.

I was still definitely needing water though, the walk had just solidified it. I was nibbling on gummy bears and pretending that counted (told you they’d come in handy). Finally, finally, finally, after a lot of lame smiley rambling to myself and a little bit of letter-drafting, I reached the next point on my map.

It also had no water.

To be honest, not entirely sure why Domaine du Sauvage is even a waymarker – it’s sort of just an empty hut in the woods? But figuring I was maybe just missing the point, I carried on. Allegedly, my guidebook says, there were toilets and water at the Chapelle of Saint Roch, which I was an uncertain amount of distance from. Helpful.

Anyway, the gravel path which had so kindly led me through woodland and beautiful fields now dumped me unceremoniously at the side of the D987. Walking along the side of highways is a little less fun than ancient forests, but the adrenaline of motorhomes whizzing really helps things. Although, to be fair to them, most people driving past made an effort to go around you, some to the point of switching lanes on blind corners, which is arguably more stressful than them just hitting you.

-Col de l’Hospitalet-

Finally a sign appears for – nothing? It’s a little stone alter and a picnic table; you aren’t there yet. Groaning and no doubt grumbling, you’ll force your legs to walk just a little longer, get just a little farther. Toilets and water, toilets and water, do not shit on the side of the road, toilets and water. Camino mantras couldn’t be less glamorous if they tried.

And then you arrive at Roch’s Chapel, and it’s pretty hard not to smile. I mean, the church is fine, if you’re into that sort of thing, but outside of it, on the small slope, is a bunch of split logs fashioned into seats. It’s got the real Bexhill-open-air-cathedral vibe going on, from the type of wood to the blue-tinged paint. I can practically taste the chicken salt. Mmmm nostalgia.

I grab a stamp, not realising you’re meant to let them give it to you, take a peek inside (dark and stuffy and Catholic), and ditch everything in favour of the toilets. I don’t manage to find potable water, and ignore my own advice of taking whatever you find, instead just wandering back over to the Bexhill-adjacent seating and going to sleep.

Thirty minutes later, I’m ready to take on the world (breakfast). Once that’s taken on, it’s time to think about where I’m sleeping. I know, it’s not even midday yet and I’m planning – disgusting. The key thing I need tonight is wifi; I want to be able to talk to people !! I also need to upload my little back-catalogue of blogs and do my taxes, but primarily it’s for call purposes :]

I find a pretty sweet looking place in Saint-Alban-sur-Limognole, and figure I can justify a shorter day today. I’ve had two longer ones today and yesterday, only a few kilometres off thirty each time; surely a 19km day was fine. Plus, it’s €4 to camp – no brainer. I send an email when the call goes dead, hoping they respond. It says check-in opens at 3.00pm, and I’ll definitely be there by then, so that’s sorted. Another quick doze and I’m ready to go – I’m sure there’ll be water somewhere. I am not good at learning lessons.

There’s a reason I’m staying inside again – this part of France is a lot more densely populated than the last three weeks worth have been, and partly because it’s totally going to rain tonight. Not the best to set up a tent surrounded by villages. But oh well, €4 isn’t too bad – and even if that fails, I can stomach the usual €20. For a bed and hot shower and wifi, I’ll manage <33

As I round the corner, the sky darkens. It’s definitely rain; I can see the curve of it, watch it come towards me. It’s still sunny on the mountain, still warm, but the cloud-front is approaching quick. Doom on the horizon and what-not. It makes all the flowers look so much brighter though, pinks and yellows popping against the monotonous background. So many silver linings :]

I follow the highway without red and white stripes for long enough that I get convinced I’m lost, and rather than backtrack, have solidly resigned myself to the 9km of road-walking I have before me – only to find the markers a few hundred metres later. Also, the markers tell me there’s an extra three kilometres for no reason. I love this trail, but man why does there have to be so much natural beauty I need water.

-Le Rouget-

Le Rouget does have water, although it comes from a rusty hose and smells a little funny. I drink it regardless, and fill up my bottle. It takes me thirty minutes to notice Chunks in it, but when I do, I just scrunch my nose and try to ignore it. Water is water. Let’s just get it done (James Acaster still very much on the mind).

I was hoping for a rest spot in Le Rouget, but they’re both full of pilgrims. Aaaahh curse my cynic! We press on, cynic and optimist at each others throats. Joy. There’s cows though, and they’re sweet, and one is a little creepy but mostly they’re just gentle giants and I love them <33 They keep me company in the last stretch into town, and eventually I peel away, waving my furry (hairy?) friends goodbye as the path weaves through a final wheat-field and arrives at a stop sign just out of town.

-Saint-Alban-sur-Limognole-

Definitely one of the bigger towns of the last few days, Saint-Alban-sur-Limognole is quiet (it’s 1.30pm) and overwhelming, and set on the side of a mountain, so everything is stacked quite firmly atop one another. I waste an hour lounging on a park bench, writing about the cows and the day so far (hello, you!), and when the church bells ring three times, I make my way into the Centre Ville (ten bucks if you can guess the translation of that one, it’s a real head-scratcher).

Finding the refuge is a little horrifying, purely because everything is so jam-packed with buildings, but I eventually find it. I also find that there is zero room whatsoever, even for camping, because they’re hosting a party. Fair play, but I’m fucked. At the very least, there’s a weird little corner store here and – holy shit are those multiple cool postcards???? You’re fucking joking.

Best day of my life; there’s shitty headphones too. And Orangina ? They know me so well. I cough up €12.50, well spent, then regroup outside in the drizzle as I attempt to figure out what to do. I need shelter for the night, a tent won’t work, not anywhere I can see. I ring every single gîte in town. I’m not joking – I dial thirteen seperate numbers. Thirteen seperate mangled Franglish conversations – not one bite. I give up, flick to the next stage. First place I call goes, in English, ‘Oh hell yeah man’. I’ve never felt more welcome.

On we go, then! I’ve got 7.5km to make till Les Estrets, and I want to get there vaguely early. By my standards at least; most of the pilgrims I’ve seen today are long gone, warm and showered. Ohh the dream <33 Except, it’s me, and things could never be so simple. I go the wrong way.

Yeah, yeah on the path where the arrows tell you which way to walk, I walked the wrong way. For two kilometres, yeah. Never once remembering that both sides of the signposts are marked. Never once looking back to maybe double check there aren’t massive red and white crosses behind you. Never once thinking ‘hey isn’t it weird that the way out of town seems to be taking you the exact same way it took you in?’.

Back to where I was, all the way back down, only to realise the sign was literally right above my head on the signpost I was leaning on in the drizzle. Fuck me. I wander on, trying to find some water, and I don’t, but what I do find is an open Spar tacked onto the side of a servo.

As per their very polite sign, I leave my rucksack in the crates outside, then clear the doors and beeline for the cold drinks. So much choice, so many smart options, so many other things besides the same fucking citrus drink – nope cool grab that, sure. I’m sort of second guessing if I need anything, and realise the only thing that would be nice is some bread. Right as I have that little lightbulb moment, though, I also have a blackout, because I’ve just seen they’ve got knockoff slushies. Oh my god.

A bit of terrible miming and a probably offensive fake French accent later, I leave armed with the worlds most expensive tiny cup of ice. It’s so terrible, neon blue, tastes like shit, and it’s perfect. Granita does not have a goddamn t h i n g on a real slushie, way closer to the 7/11 slurpee more than anything, but it’ll do. It’s cold, sweet ice, and it’s exactly what I need.

If you’re wondering if I’ve realised I’ve bought two things that can only make me thirstier, the answer is no, but give me about thirty minutes and I’ll get there.

You follow the road for just a little longer here, then fork off to the right into a little clump of trees – a perfect place to sleep, if you happen to be passing close to dusk. There’s a few benches here, in the shade, where no-one would be later in the day (or presumably, early in the morning), and you aren’t super visible from the trail. If anyone reading this is prone to sleeping on French benches, that I don’t know, but I figured just in case :]

From the patch of trees, it’s a straight shot uphill in the sun till you reach one of the giant stone crosses that litter the landscape. This one, though, points the way to your next stop.

-Grazières-Mages-

Once again, you reach a beautiful little hamlet surrounded by jaw-dropping mountains covered in green, full of picturesque houses and French men in unnecessarily tight pants. You’ll probably have a bit of a ‘wow I’m so lucky I get to be alive in this world’ moment. Or at least, I assume you will, unless you’re the most jaded person on this earth.

But for all it’s beauty and natural charm, Grazières-Mages does not have a water fountain. I mean, it has a water fountain, just sans the water. The problem with massive country-wide heatwaves and extreme drought is water tends to be a little fucking tight – some of the smaller towns will stop theirs. Fair play, climate change is gonna kill us all, save your water. I could have knocked on any door, asked any person out in their yard, but I decided I could make it to the next stop, using pure teenage reasoning. Sure, I’d walked twenty odd kilometres without water, and was definitely starting to feel it – but I’d made it this far, right? What was another three?

As I walked, I played leapfrog with another pilgrim. He’d been the one to pass me this morning and wake me up, but I’d skipped him in The Wild. He’d then jumped past me as I slept by the chapel, but I’d caught him up in Le Rouget. When I got lost, he’d made it ahead, but I could see his green backpack as we climbed. It was fun; he’d only recently started to recognise me, and we had yet to swap words. A quick jokey nod, a move aside to let the other pass, and wait your turn.

Here, in between the two towns, it was my turn. I jumped up ahead as he stopped for a drink (the dream), and he laughed. I did too; it was good to be distracted. And speaking of distraction, Chabanes-Planes – which had to have water – was in the dip of the next valley, which meant all I have to do was clear this hill, so it was time to write (kinda). I couldn’t spend another minute thinking about distance or beds; I needed mental scribbles.

Helpfully, the cracks were wider here. I fell through, landed back in my hemisphere. If I didn’t look up, I could be anywhere. Sandy gravel and jagged rock, tree roots. How perfectly nowhere. I could’ve been on a coastal bushwalk, crunching spikey leaves underfoot, the Pacific somewhere to my left, surrounded by eucalyptus.

The roots were the most geographically pliable; they were thick and sturdy, earth eroded from beneath, a cast of the ground that once was, suspended in the air. They were the type you jump off, landing in dark tea-tree water, paperbark spiralling down in the wind to meet you. The kind that stretch up from the depths, poke you when you make dives to the bottom, send children screaming back to the surface.

This was all the slushies fault – I was onto primary school. I would’ve killed for the classics, $2 servo Traveller beef pie (top peeled off, tomato sauce on the meat). A slushie, a real one, the kind they sold at the canteen in Year 4 before they got banned, red and blue and chunky fucking ice, sweeter than anything you should ever consume. 55¢ bag of Tiny Teddies, the ones with the chocolate back, the ones that’d melt all through the white paper before you could get to them. That cheeky summer heat, ‘no hat, no play’, bubblers in the cola.

And then I was thinking about the school before that, of OOSC (ousch) and learning to draw cartoon eyes, colouring in in long empty classrooms, cold and dark. Chicken two minute noodles in those clear green bowls with the scratchy stripes on the side, turkeys gobbling by the fence. Reading by the trees, trying not to get swopped by bastard plovers as I ignored the bell. Rebellion (not that I knew it).

-Chabanes-Planes-

And then I was at the welcome sign. Mental scribbles for the win. I love reminiscing :]

Thankfully, Chabanes-Planes had a functioning water tap, and I guzzled my heart out. Filled everything up, got leapfrogged. Finally said hello, promptly said goodbye. Such is the Camino! Sitting and breathing for a minute, trying to stretch my poor shoulders, I felt so peaceful. Only three kilometres to go till a shower, till warmth and calls and letter-writing.

-Les Estrets-

I won’t bore you with the last stretch before I arrived, given that it was mostly alongside sheep and cattle, but the sunset was shaping up to be quite beautiful. A smaller, not-quite-as-intense version of the descent before Pratclaux and I had arrived. Les Estrets is also fairly small, but it’s lovely – flowers in every window, cats prowling the streets. By the church, I diverged from the arrows, following the green ones instead, which would lead me to my home for the night.

And who did I find by the entryway but my leapfrogger :]? Another hello, another laugh. A familiar face was nice to have. I followed his lead and took off my shoes, then we were welcomed inside by our host, credentials stamped and money swapped (€15 per night, sans food), then led upstairs. I regretted my decision the second we hit the stairs though – dinner smelt incredible. Fucking Christ what was that?

Ignoring my overeager stomach, I entered the room to find,, more people? That was definitely new – I’d never shared with more than one other person till now. Or, I guess that was a lie, there had been two Americans last-last night, but we were in seperate rooms so it didn’t count. Here, I was one of four. The first two had snagged great beds, but had chosen ones that made it weird for either of us to grab one too (ie. not corner ones, but ones that forced the other to pick one directly next to them). A little terrified, I picked a bunk bed. So did my leapfrogger.

We swapped names, realised English was the common language, which was, as I understood, new for everyone. My leapfrogger was from Paris, walking to Conques, the woman was from America, the man from Australia, and both were walking to Saint-Jean. We had quite the little mix, which was cool. The Australian had moved to Canada a long time ago, but had grown up relatively near where I was, so we had a bit of a back and forth, which was also new for me.

Dare I say, I got the conversation thing right for once? After a half hour, they left for dinner and I departed for my shower. Sweet, sweet relief. Hot was a stretch, but it was enough to relax my shoulders. My legs were beyond saving, I figured I’d just leave them up to God.

I ate my pesto tomato sandwich, popped the same blister again because it came BACK what the fuck (!!) and then got myself clean and ready for bed. Or, more accurately, ready to write. I rambled a bunch, scribbled some more, tried in vain to figure out a setting for my characters because without one they cannot exist, gave up, and finished writing this :]

Hello!! Time for our nightly debrief, I suppose. The lovely American lady just offered you snacks in case you were still hungry, and not to embarrass you by putting it on the internet forever, but the gesture did almost make you cry! You aren’t hungry, but I think maybe next time,,, ma y b e getting the food would be okay. Because that smelt otherworldly, even if it did turn out to be wild boar <33

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Day 22 – September 11th

??? to Les Estrets

27.4km

~82.9km total

€31.20

~ €87.63 total

(446.6km combined)

(€719.86 combined)