pocket-full-of-seaglass

-Les Quatre Chemins-

Last night was an experience, that’s for sure. My roommates were the loudest snorers I’ve ever experienced – couldn’t tell if it was the thunder shaking the walls or them. The storm was brilliant though. Ink black sky, the last few gray clouds swallowed by the darkness, bright white lightning. I remember writing something in Year Six where I described lightning strikes as bones left behind in the sky – what a pretentious little nerd. Cute.

They also turned the light on at exactly 7.00am and went, “GOOD MORNING! :D”, which was for sure the most enthusiastic morning start to date. I tossed and turned a little, but it was conversation time, apparently. If I sound grouchy, it’s because it’s 7.00am and people are talking to me. I am. As much as I like them, no one should be able to exist until at least 10.00am, I think.

Anyway, we’re up, we’re organised (not), and we’re getting ready to leave. Bringing everything back down to the bag room, totally not almost leaving your towel behind, and then it’s 7.30am; time for breakfast. Oh boy. Listen, last night was stressful enough, braving the whole thing again barely conscious was not entirely something I was excited for. It was,, French breakfast. Delicious bread with way too sweet jam and coffee. 1/3 of the way there for me.

Also? I had a bone to pick with the French; what the fuck did they have against salted butter? Y’know what, actually, the Germans get looped in too. Is it a European thing? Actually I think in America it was the same too – is it an Australian thing? Unsalted butter is so,,,, gross?? It doesn’t taste like anything it’s just slime why would you ever put that on perfectly good bread? Jam and salted butter – yum. Salted butter and vegemite – even better (okay that one was definitely Australian). Nutella and salted butter – my god.

The point is : I couldn’t even chow down on some bread and butter to balance out the jam because it was so tastless </3 I’ll add salted butter to the list of Australian foods I was missing, right under the category of Things That Taste Like Something. I wanted to be punched in the face with flavour : at the moment (after one meal and multiple breakfasts) French food was not living up to the hype !!!! No way am I judging too soon that would be so weird.

Anyway, breakfast eaten, stomach turning, and board paid (ouch), I was off. It was a grim little morning, freezing and drizzly, sky dark gray and car lights slanting and stretching in the rain. Tell you a secret; when cars drive past you fast while it’s raining, you get real fucking cold, real fucking fast. So I was immensely glad when the path forked off from the road almost immediately. I passed the first few chunks of last nights fourteen fairly quickly; my pace was speeding up. Practice, or whatever.

What I didn’t know, at this point, was that today would be one of the prettiest days of my entire walk so far, one to rival the mountains past Yenne. And I couldn’t help but be glad in retrospect; the gloom made for incredible scenes all day long. Maybe it’s just something about mist and rain that makes everything look insane.

It started fairly standard for the past few days; pine trees and mud. Christmas trees had started popping up everywhere too, and that was making me really happy, but nothing compared with the scenes that greeted me when I emerged from the little woods. A quick wander across a green field full of soaking sheep, two gates made of wire and wood that you have to unhook and drag back into place, where you’ll panic because people are behind you but not close enough so you kinda half close them and look apologetic and confused and they have to nod each time for you to not feel like an asshole, and you’ll be there too.

Today is a day of wheat-grass (it’s definitely grass) and stone. The yellow of the grass clashes brilliantly against the sky, and the massive chunks of volcanic stone litter the fields. For the next ten kilometres, fog will drift across through the fields, covering the rocky monuments before your eyes; occasional cowbells and deep moos echo across the empty expanse of gold. You’re following a well-trodden dirt path barely wide enough for one, and your pants will be absolutely sopping by the end with the amount of dew and rain passed onto you by the bushes to either side, but it doesn’t matter at all.

I spent the first two and a half hours of the morning quietly going, “oh what the fuck“, every time I turned a corner or crested a hill. It was unbelievable – photos don’t do it justice. The endless grass stretches into the horizon, split with low stone fences. And, after a while, I reach something,, new ?? A massive stone circle, at the top of a hill with nothing else for kilometres. Okay? It’s got inscriptions (French, shocker), and all I can make out is that it might be a round map of the rivers of the area (??), based on the names I recognise. Either way, it looks really cool. Massive Thing all alone, and it isn’t another cross? Score <33

I took a few pictures, had another “how fucking crazy is it that I get to exist in a world this pretty” moment, got overtaken by another hiker, got competitive, forced myself to stop being competitive (it was still ‘be nice to my knees’ time), and carried on. More little things; there were two red berry trees that sent shockwaves through the gray, and the same was true of the little purple flowers growing between the cracks in the stone.

The cows are sandy brown, blending in, and occasionally you’ll startle one another as you pass. You might also hypothetically startle another pilgrim by being right behind them ready to overtake when they suddenly pause and turn around and go, “JESUS CHRIST!!”, and then when you apologise and start laughing, they might hypothetically go, in a really strong accent, “I am PRAYING now”. Hypothetically, that might send you chuckling downhill all the way into Rieutort d’Aubrac.

-Rieutort d’Aubrac-

This will take you entirely by surprise, because you’re definitely not meant to be here yet – but, as it turns out, you just didn’t read the names of the places you were passing. Sure, Finieyrols was a town, and you passed one of those, but that was boring and you wanted to get back to the grass. And yeah, there was a cross, but that could’ve been anywhere and – I wonder what ‘Roc des Loups’ means. Surely not Loop of Rock. Yyeeaaahh okay I walked longer than I thought I did.

Rieutort is quaint, and clearly loves their pilgrim tourism; there’s a small cafe as you enter catered towards the sad pilgrim-shaped huddle of dripping backpacks, and several extraordinarily phallic-shaped water fountains. Seats, tables, toilets, you name it. Be a great place to stop, if you aren’t stubborn and already decided you won’t do that till you get to Nasbinals.

Not that that lasts, for the record. By the time you hit the village of Montgros three odd kilometres later, you’re not feeling quite so stubborn, and in the now drizzle-less cold, you can’t help but have a little sit down on an incredibly appealing stone near someone’s front yard. You don’t have to spend too much time thinking about that though; there’s about to be a chicken stampede. I don’t know if you’ve ever seen a bunch of weirdly lanky chickens cohesively sprint down a road, but I highly recommend it. Crazy fucking animals, all gross skin and crusty feathers.

Anyway, you listen to another yet-to-be-introduced voice in your head, the writer, for awhile. She’s an old Australian woman with that classic grannie perm who waves aside absolutely any emotion in favour of a ramble.

“Have a bikkie and a scribble darl, you’ll be right.”

So you take half her advice; a choccy bikkie (we all have our vices) later, I’m ready for the final 3km.

It’s another stretch of cool yellow fields, but the rocky road (going on the list of things I miss) is a little tiring. And also; I’ve decided on a bit of a change of plan. Originally, I was going to stop in Aubrac, 12km away. But,,,, that sort of seemed boring now. I’d noticed that I felt less exhausted at the end of my days now, or at least that I always felt like I could’ve gone further – even though my last few days (minus last night) had all been pushing the higher twenties. So, why not a challenge.

30km. I’d push on through to Saint-Chérly-d’Aubrac, where there was a campsite. Even though it’d been drizzling on and off, it allegedly wouldn’t rain tonight – seemed like a pretty great night for a (cheap) tent. I’d gotten a little too used to the luxuries; I wanted a shower every night. I was justifying my constant indoors-ness with the rain; without it, I’d sleep outside way more.

With my challenge in mind, I went for speed. Earbuds in (sorry to any severely injured people in ditches, I’m not your man today), listening to music fifteen year old me loved, I let my mind run wild, hoping my feet would try to catch up. I was right. Beside a stream, across a bridge and over a hill; shittily air-drumming till I hit the first houses.

-Nasbinals-

Nasbinals is really cool, old stone houses and tangled ivy covering everything, smashed stained-glass. And this awesome cow-wearing-flowers statue. Could a town even get better?

It turns out, yes, a town can get better. There’s an Astromarkt – with an épicerie attached, and envelopes. Finally!!! I could send my mail!!! I grabbed some essentials (haribo and cherry tomatoes), hoped it was cold enough for Comté to keep, and then saw it. Salade de Carottes Râpées Assaisonée. The fucking carrot thing from yesterday – holy shit. You can just buy it? I think I’ve just introduced a new vegetable to my rotation.

The only thing this lovely little markt was missing was some bread, but no fear – there’s a patisserie right across the road, and I’ve decided today is the day I rebrave the whole ‘can I please have a singular baguette please‘ thing. This time, I’m prepared for follow up questions – she has none.

Armed with a 95¢ baguette that is sure to taste better than any bread I’ve eaten in my life, I sat on the church steps and wrote the last card, then got it ready to post. I just,, didn’t know where. I guess I’d wait till I passed a little box? How did it work in France?

A problem for later – the clouds are dark, and it’s really starting to drizzle; I don’t know when it’s going to break, but I definitely don’t want to be there when it does. The baguette is strapped between my tent and dirty socks (you get used to it quicker than you’d think), the letters tucked away, raincover (mostly) on. It was time to leave Nasbinals.

The way shifted, scenery switched. The stretch between Nasbinals and Aubrac is about nine kilometres of the same grass, but almost nothing else. It’s incredibly sick, and I love it. Occasionally abandoned stone houses falling apart from the inside out will creep up on you from behind a hill, shatter the monotony. It’s perfect.

Many of the French paths you walk have, in order to secure the dirt, smashed red roof tiles into fine chunks and poured them everywhere. Mostly, this is a fun new terrain to navigate, but sometimes, in the damp, the colours bleed, blend together. The dirt turns red, sends me on another hemispherical tailspin – red cliffs meeting the sea – but a quick whip of the frigid wind brings me back.

The clouds are closing in; you can see the rain hitting the hills ahead of you, shivering in the cold. Somehow though, the closer you get, the more it drifts. You’ve managed to beat the storm, get behind it – you watch as your less fortunate counterparts downhill brace for impact.

Low stone fences, the same sandy cows. A wooden cross or two on the horizon. Briefly, you’ll follow the side of a forest, see a farm peeking through the cracks, then you’ll peel away again, back to the land of golden waves and cattle gates. After a (very) long stretch of cow shit and muddy stones, you’ll reach your final grate; then a spike. You’re walking to the highest point on the entire Podiensis, and you don’t even know it. It’s nothing like the climbs of the Gebennensis – this time, it’s just another hill. And then you’re at the top, and you can see Aubrac, and this is the highest you’ll get for a month – 1364m above sea level.

-Aubrac-

Aubrac definitely has a,, unique silhouette (first time I’ve ever spelt that right on my first try). Its church is sharp and rectangular, more blocky than anything, like my brother and I’s Minecraft houses when we got a massive old clunky family computer for the first time, the cabinet wheezing its way through another summer. Nostalgia where you least expect it.

Here is where I finally take my first break, 20km into the day, and find the tiniest ladybug I’ve ever seen in my life. Oh, and a bit of free advice? If you notice, say, 6km into your walk that your socks are sopping because you walked through a puddle that was just a bit too deep for your Gortex, take the fuckers off. When I peeled them off afor the first time here, they were capital g Gross.

I’m talking wrinkled, skin peeling, smelling like hell, the whole shebang. They hurt, no more than usual though, so I knew the whole looking-like-they-were-rotting thing was fine. Unfortunately, those passing me were not privy to that information. And if you’re sort of waving this off, fair play, I’m known to be a tad dramatic – but here’s some corroborating evidence.

A lady who walked past as I took them off stopped directly in my periphery, pretended she forgot something to walk past again, walked back, looked at me with so much concern in her eyes and said,

“Is it medical?”

“Medical?” I must have misunderstood her French.

“Contagious,” she corrects herself in English, “contagious!”

Blissfully unaware of how bad they look yet, I cheerily ask for clarification.

“Your condition.”

So that was hilarious. I assured her it was definitely not, and she left, significantly less worried (hopefully). I left my ugly numb toes to air dry, trying to ignore the smell (if I have to live it, you have to hear about it) as I ate. Today’s lunch went hard. I would happily eat that carrot salad for every meal of the rest of my life, all I needed now was the beetroot. I mixed it with somewhat stale baguette and Comté and,,, Ratatouille fireworks scene <33 And eventually, some pesto too because who would I be without it?

And here, as I ate, I saw someone. It started in the distance, a man walking uphill with a familiar gait, talking to someone on Facetime. As the phone moved, I saw the friendly five o’clock shadow – my leapfrogger! He must have also had a shorter day in the rain yesterday; we had almost exactly the same pace. I smiled, waved, and he grinned and walked over.

“We meet again!”

“So we do,” he laughs, “are you staying here tonight?”

“No, just for lunch – I’m going to Saint-Chérly.”

“Well, I guess I’ll see you on the way then :]”

And he moves away again, following those arrows.

Excited at the prospect of some leapfrogging, I enjoy the last of my lunch and begin to pack up. It’s getting dark again, and I’d quite like to avoid the downpour while I can – the forecast isn’t leaving me hopeful – so with a quick clean (wipe on my pants) of the pocket knife and a replacement of my rain cover, I follow my leapfrogger. I also don’t throw my rubbish in the bin because there’s someone in front of it and end up carrying it till the next bin, 5km away, but that isn’t as important.

It is, to what should be no-one’s surprise, a very pretty seven kilometres to Saint-Chély-d’Aubrac. A little more yellow grass, then you enter a wooded tunnel through the trees, where birds dart and chirp in the green light. Down some unsteady rock paths, and I meet my leapfrogger. More laughter, “you again!”, and a few little questions, then I pull ahead. He’ll pass me in the morning – he’s staying at a gîte directly above the campground.

From here, the stones become even more unsteady, slick with rain and steep, following the curve of a jagged chunk of rock rising vertically from its surroundings. It’s volcanic, and ancient and fucking awesome. Down a tiny bit more rock then you’re in Belvezet, surrounded by decaying huts. A bin – you can ditch the rubbish – and some tables, but not for you. You can’t stop till you get there, because the drizzle is back and this time, you haven’t managed to avoid the storm.

It’s new, again, all mossy woods and damp air. Thick and overwhelmingly green, underbrush stopping you from seeing a metre in front of you. You pass a woodworkers shop kilometres from the closest house; he tinkers inside and the smell of sawdust and varnish floats out to meet you as you walk past his hand-carved mushroom decorations – the dream.

And then the storm breaks. Rain, real rain, for the first time all day, hammering into your shoulders. Wouldn’t be as much of a problem if you weren’t going straight downhill. Progress slows to a crawl as you’re soaked in the deluge. Sun creeps through the cracks, makes rainbows in the air. Pros and cons :]

Two kilometres until Saint-Chély, one. You stumble from the rock onto a road, rain running rivulets down your arms and the small of your back. Feels as good as it sounds. And then – there! House number one.

-Saint-Chély-d’Aubrac-

Now, I might regret saying this in the morning, but I’ve walked almost 30km already and I feel,, fine? Last time my limbs were giving out and I was in agony, but this time I honestly contemplate continuing to walk. Eventually, it’s only the rain that pushes me down the main street and away from the arrows to the campsite. It’s a bit of a scary system : fill out a form, set up your tent, get a little number and then the guy will come collect the money at,,, some point??

Luckily, I only scramble with the form briefly, and then the guy himself arrives – that definitely works. €8 forked over and I’m on my way to the showers. I think I might have to justify a stupid expensive villa type night every so often because tepid water that stops running every thirty seconds really isn’t quite as nice as burning hot water you can sit in – but it’ll definitely do for now.

It’s absolutely so cold, even in the sleeping bag, which is a little nuts. I’m in a Very weird nostalgia spiral, to the tune of shitty pop punk that I thought was the pinnacle of music in 2018 (they all still go so hard though.,.,) and people I haven’t spoken to in years. And I’ve got a bit of a backlog of blogs, so I’ll leave you know, jamming out to old Fall Out Boy albums that fourteen year old me has permanently burnt into the recesses of my brain <33

Hopefully your fourteen year old self chose music a little better than mine did,,,

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Day 24 – September 13th

Les Quatre Chemins to Saint-Chély-d’Aubrac

30.1km

~ 130.1km total

€22.95

~ €162.58 total

(494.8km combined)

(€791.81 combined)