pocket-full-of-seaglass

-Golinhac-

I woke up a little later than normal, somewhere around nine; last one up, as per usual. The toilets are,, shut, weirdly, which complicates things, but I digress. It’s a quick job of packing up now, I’ve had my practice – long gone are the mornings of struggling for minutes on end with my mat. Speaking of, I’m about 90% sure I’m getting rid of the bloody thing the second I find a new outdoor store on the way.

I have a bit of a last minute wash of a pair of socks and a pair of undies, hang them off my pack, then rinse (literally) and repeat with my towel. Now all I need is sunlight, please. On my way out, I notice a tiny épicerie tucked away, and visit – there’s nothing that particularly appeals though, so I move along, albeit slowly. It’s a shorter day than the last few today, just over 20km, so there’s no need to rush. Plus, I’ve developed a fun new (English) pain; the top of my right foot absolutely screams whenever it touches my boot. Rightio. Loosened (too much gravel for bare feet today, even with a shorter day), I carry on into the centre of town, where I see a familiar haircut craning up at the church.

Belgian lady!! She’s back!! I’m so late she caught up with me!! I finally get my goodbye, as she waves me along.

“Bon Chemin!” is swapped, and she dips inside the church.

As she does, other familiar faces show themselves; the two men who disappeared into the fog in front of me post-Espalion. I follow the shells bouncing from their packs until they get confused, then they’re forced to follow my wet laundry. I get the feeling I had the better end of the deal.

As I walked, I realised today was the 16th – one day post the awards. If you’ll indulge me, pretty much the entire rest of today becomes one anxious spiral that thinly veils my unintentional bragging – I hate reading it too. Sorry in advance, but occasionally future me needs to remember I’m still a little (lot) insufferable.

Last year, I’d done Extension 2, a writing course, for my HSC. It was fun, and I’d equally hated and loved it, and it had sort of,, resparked me, I guess. I had adored writing when I was younger, but by the time I started the course I hadn’t written in years – and by the end, I’d written a 6,000 word piece I didn’t entirely hate; pretty big for me.

I’d somehow ended up getting shortlisted for the NSW Literary Awards, then actually got in. My lame little not-the-worst piece was going to be published in a compilation of the highest rated works from across the state. Bit fucking mental actually. And they’d happened yesterday – I couldn’t see what I got, but I’d gotten it. And the book was out. Ohhhh man.

I was stupidly happy. It still didn’t feel real. I’d spent so much time scribbling; in dusty buses, in alleyways behind my work, at the beach with my back against the Pandanas palms, at cold classroom tables before the birds started singing, anywhere a thought struck. And it had paid off. It was, I cannot stress this enough, insane. As I made my way through the pine forest, I couldn’t stop smiling. The second I got a hint of reception I was going to buy it and absolutely inhale it.

But that wouldn’t be for awhile yet – for now, I had another 7km until Espeyrac. They trickled past as I met new characters, vivid as the lovers in Jongieux le Haut. They jumped around in my mind, banged on doors, tried to get out. I was mentally scribbling as fast as I could, but they were slipping out of reach – voice notes it was. Seventeen and a half minutes of straight ramble as I try to pinpoint who they were, what they wanted. I was passed by two cyclists who laughed at me, and only then did I clock I looked a little bonkers. Ahh well, happens to the best of us.

-Esyprec-

I was still rambling when I cleared the forest and emerged at the épicerie and church in quick succession, and only then did I stop because there were Actually People There. Some peach yoghurt, a tomato and a twister icey-pole, a kind you’ve never seen before; yellow and red. What a strange country.

I beeline for the closest table, buy a digital copy of the book. I’m so hyped. And I do inhale the first story. It’s brilliant – a retelling of the night the Romanovs are shot, from a mesh of perspectives. The entire time, my excitement is slowly mounting; I’m mouth open smiling, icey-pole melting down my hands – I chuck it away, too enthralled to eat. Mine is next, and I skip it, having read it more than enough times over the past year. The next one is brilliant, and the next and the next and the next. I’m in awe; how do people write like this? They’re jaw-dropping – I fucking love words.

And then, with a soft shiver, the wind changes; a sucker punch from Cynic, and my Optimist falls. Ohhhh shit. I don’t deserve to be in it. Imposter syndrome kicks in, full force, and I’m free-falling. It’s been a second since I’ve had this, and I sort of forget what to do. Keep moving? I pack up, try to outwalk it. Not a shot, I’m afraid, because from here it gets rough, so excuse the self-pity.

The stretch between Esyprec and Sénergues is just under 3km, and it goes by relatively fast; I’m blaring music and trying to get out of my head. But my legs are carrying it; I’m already wrecked.

-Sénergues-

I collapse in the pilgrim rest shelter, try to eat. I feel ill, just absolutely stewing in anxiety. This is so fucking stupid, I think to myself, but that only sets them off more. Jesus Christ. For the first time, I genuinely do not want to keep walking at all. I’m resorting to the classics; I just want a dark room away from everyone where I can reset for a few days. Unfortunately, that’s not exactly possible.

I miss my bed with it’s creaky springs that dig into your back and the pillows that are always too cold. I miss comfort, even when it bordered on unhealthy. I’m dangling over The Pit in my stomach, filled with all the other anxieties and worries and insecurities that get stuck to me like some big metaphorical lint-roller. Every one of them sticks, and mounts, and I feel horrific. I need the dark, sleep, I need to be bad at existing for a little.

I had a process for dealing with myself, one that couldn’t be interrupted; I’d never not been able to start the process. I didn’t have my normal fixes, didn’t have my normal rules. But, to my credit, I also had something I didn’t usually; a goal. I’m going to get to Conques today, and after that we’d see.

I got up, reading more, in love with the words but feeling so mean and jealous. I felt like a child. Gross. Reluctantly, I kept going, brain yelling the entire time. I do try to make it clearer with the characters, but eventually Fear and Optimism and Enthusiasm and the Cynic all meld into one loud argument that never ends, never quiets.

The next ten kilometres were hell. I was glum, and in an absolutely rotten mood; sad, and angry that I was sad, and sad that I was angry, and angry I was angry. All that testosterone doesn’t leave much room for more than two emotions at once, it seems. I’d been doing great the past few weeks – I guess it was fair to have a bit of a shit one. I don’t remember scenery, I don’t remember songs. It was just a ‘one foot in front of the other, don’t look up, don’t think, just get there’ kind of afternoon.

-Conques-

And then, I got there. A sign tells me the brief but gory history of the twelve-year-old who was beheaded here, giving the Chapels their names (Foy). Lovely stuff. The houses are ancient, medieval. Pretty streets, pretty gifts, souvenirs and knick knacks spilling out of shops like patrons spill from delicious smelling restaurants. It’s beautiful – and I can’t bring myself to explore. I need to sleep, need to hide away, curl up and not exist till morning. I’m about 70% sure tomorrow will be a rest day – I need a little but of stewing time.

I follow the streets down, down, down, leave the beauty behind. The campsite is all the way out and to the right, and when the lady at reception asks if I’d like to share a pitch or be alone, I’m so relieved I almost tear up. I’m the furthest pitch away from everyone, and it’s perfect. There’s no internet again, and I couldn’t care less – a shower later and I’m ready for bed.

I’m wide awake about five minutes later, when I clock today is Saturday, and I have no food. And I will continue to have no food until I move. The shops here are shut, and there isn’t another one until Decasville. Shit. I walk back over – there was a tiny épicerie in the reception – but no luck, they’re shut. I’m going to have to pay for dinner here. Ohhh man. I reserve a spot, doze until it’s time, try not to panic over every tiny little thing. Fail to do so. Dinner time!

I resign myself to bad overpriced food, and trust campsite pizza again. It’s one of two vegetarian options, and the other one translates to ‘bowl’, which doesn’t give me enough information to go with. I’m mentally prepared to feel so ill, but it arrives and. Dude. It’s the best pizza I’ve ever eaten in my life. Heavy on the dairy, even for me, but incredible. Creme base and goats cheese and Some Other Cheese that tastes amazing, with burnt onions and tomatoes, topped with spicy honey. Holy shit.

I pay €2.50 for weak Nesquik, and the guy taking my order laughs at me. Leave me and my hot chocolate alone, Guy – I’m fragile, apparently. I watch the clouds roll in, eat my food, drink my water. I won’t say I’m cured, but I will say maybe eating not much of anything and barely drinking had a slight effect on my mood. I’m still sad and worried, but it’s easier with the stars out.

I (almost) listen to my body, don’t finish the pizza. More Big Moments hidden in the mediocre, fun times. Today I don’t really clock it though, just crawl into bed. It’s hot, and I’m itchy and I can’t regulate, and I try really hard not to have a little freak – and I don’t. Pros and cons. The stars really come out, and I sleep with the outside tent door open, so I can watch them blink, and I feel incredibly alone for the first time in a long time. It’s been a weird day.

---

Day 27 – September 16th

Golinhac to Conques

22.8km

~ 207.1km total

€32.30

~ €222.93 total

(571.8km combined)

(€852.16 combined)