pocket-full-of-seaglass

-Limogne-en-Quercy-

True to form, I slept terribly. My mind did not enjoy cooperating with my clearly exhausted body, and just sort of went wild every time it got dark, deciding it obviously must be the best time to think. Brilliant. Who needs sleep anyway, especially with your alarms set for 6.00am because you’re about to attempt something incredibly stupid?

I’m up before six, but I laze until 6.20am because the thought of getting out of my sleeping bag, which already feels like a sack of ice, and into the most resolutely colder air sends Literal shivers down my spine. And laying there, I realise why all of the campsites so far have felt weird; aside from the obvious, of course. Who the fuck goes camping without a fire?

Fires were the whole fun of it, the sitting up till the early hours of the morning talking, only to realise it’s probably only 9.00pm, watching the embers meld with the stars, feeling Actual Warmth. And I mean, sure, there’s cold before the fire, but it all evens out. I adore camping – this felt like,,, half-camping. In all honesty, it felt like glamping; I only ever stayed a night, I had daily showers that were (mostly) warm, the toilets weren’t compost, the toilets had lights, I was surrounded by motorhomes most nights, I was always close to town. It didn’t really feel like camping at all, more just,,, sleeping in a tent.

Anyway, eventually my bladder forces me into the air and FUCK it’s cold. My breath is coming out in thick white clouds, every limb is shaking independently of one another, I’m regretting not switching the order of the last few months. It’s too fucking cold for my Australian body, I can barely handle anything below 20*, let alone t e n !! To distract me, and because I’ve missed it, I call my dad, and we talk about blisters and his tendency to faint as a child, and everything and nothing, and I realise maybe I should possibly do that more often because otherwise I store up all my rambles and then have to unleash them all in a sort of endless stream of consciousness, no breath no bridging kind of way.

I nibble one of the last smushed brioche buns left in the bottom of my green bag as I leave the campsite, still rambling, past patrons enjoying warm breakfasts. God I miss warm breakfasts. I can’t even remember the last time I had a warm breakfast but I need one – I make the executive decision to save the beans till I have a way to cook them, and my mood brightens.

We’re talking for so long everything blends; more rocks, more moss, more green, more accidentally making the same jokes at the same time and oh my god I’m totally going to end up just like him my thirteen year old self is fuming. At some point, I run into a small group of Brits looking very confused – there’s red tape crossing off the GR65. Uh oh. But don’t worry; old, slightly insane looking European man to the rescue, he simply steps through. Righto, I trust him. I follow his lead, and the Brits follow mine, and the six of us spread out again, and by the time I reach Varaire, I haven’t seen them in a good ten minutes.

-Varaire-

At the crossroads, we hang up, and I realise how quiet it is. It’s cold, and misty, and just generally dreary – perfect Hozier weather, in other words. I bought tickets to see his show last night – what a little budgeting legend I am, truly – and now nothing on this earth will stop me from listening to him !! Sometimes you just need an Irish guy to croon about love and poetry, okay?

I split off from the arrows to try and replenish my food, wander down rows of houses to reach the épicerie, where a very cheery woman is talking to a few locals each carrying no less than six baguettes each. The dream. I peruse a little, but épicerie prices get dicey, so I return to the counter with a solitary yoghurt and a request for bread. She obliges, and €2 later I’m walking out across the road to get to the little steps opposite. The second I stop moving I have to pull on my jumper, and genuinely consider putting on my thermals to walk. It’s cold, if I haven’t said it enough. People are wearing t-shirts – are they fucking mental?

I eat my cold yoghurt (not a brilliant choice on my end), nibble on some bread, down an apple and finish off some bits and bobs. My trip to the skip almost ends my camino early, as a cat that had gotten trapped absolutely flies out of there the second I open it, promptly causing my heart to give out, and for the quiet French streets to be awoken with a hearty “FUCK”, which sends me embarrassed back the way I came.

As I wander on, rejoining the arrows, I think a little more about how dead fucking dumb my goal is. I want to make it to Cahors today. I’ve walked 7km so far, which, according to my guidebook, leaves a breezy 33km to go. Yeah, 40km in a day. When 35km almost had me sleeping in a ditch by the highway. Genius.

At the very least, everything seems to be passing by extraordinarily quickly – genuinely this time – the kilometres skipping by me like nothing. I’m too busy daydreaming and reminiscing, you know me. The real world? Why would I bother :] In fact, the first few houses confuse me – I was expecting another hour to go!

-Bach-

Bach is a lovely little hub, and it’s way-marker sign is very cute – I’m so close to halfway now !! Reassured, I move on, trying to find a rest area as the rain starts up again, but alas, today I’m fresh out of luck. Time to be a little sacrilegious. The church is unlocked, because of course it is, so I sit inside, fix my blisters – evidently, I jinxed it by telling my dad this morning I hadn’t had a new one in ages, because I’ve got a new little bastard – chuck on a few bandaids that won’t last a day, revel in the warmth that comes with stuffy air. Yum.

Considering I’m here anyway, I air my feet and make my final sandwich out of the last pesto and bread ends. I’m considering a proper break (a good thirty minutes or so), but a consult of my book unfortunately sends that one out the stained glass windows. I’ve got just under nine hours till the campsite closes, and 26km to go – I’ll need a few breaks between now and then anyway.

So I walk on, and on, and on, and after thirty minutes reach the marker telling me there’s 25.3km to go. What?! Immediately, I hit a roadblock. A big one. I feel confident enough now to say I’m past the body stage, and well into the mind; it’s no longer me struggling to move, but rather trying to grapple with my brain not wanting to move.

And today, I’m in a bind, because I’m a bit grumpy, and a bit stressed, and it’s fucking boring. Like I said yesterday, yes, I’m definitely spoilt, but also – it’s a never-ending gravel road. For hours. With minimal turns. My mind has never been so blank, and with that nothingness comes the droning emptiness of everything around me. Everything warps and drags and I start to find myself going a little nuts – but at least there’s a few momentary repeaters. There’s a woman in magenta who waves at me very enthusiastically whenever we pass one another, and she makes me immensely smiley; as do the two couples in blue I keep passing and re-passing, so that helps the time pass.

On a less fun note, there’s a lot of racist bullshit in France. No one does rebellion like them, so the graffiti is almost always FUCK THE PIGS adjacent (big fan), but recently I’ve noticed there’s also a massive swing towards ‘defend europe’ and swastikas and nazi shit – horrific. There’s always some, but over the past week it’s started to outweigh the rest. Fucking horrible, I want to scrub it all off.

Gladly, I re-enter the forest, where the graffiti tapers off, and five odd kilometres out of Bach I finally live my dreams of entering one of the little stone huts. It’s got a little seat, shelter from the drizzle that has – once again – vanished, and god I wish it was later in the day because this would be a perfect place to wildcamp! The grass is long and soft and blown over, you’re well out of the way but not in the trees, and it seems like the law of wildcamping; everytime you pass a place, it’s always too early, and then when you need one you’re searching till the very last second.

The scenery does have a bit of a twist here, which brightens my mood for a few kilometres – no longer grassy and windswept, the dirt gives way to large stone chunks, a rocky plateau stretching into the distance. Some of them are so dark they look purple, and the moss has transformed into stark white lichen that clings to everything, even the bare branches of the trees sticking out from between the shards. It’s dusty, and seems,,, tired, but it’s stunning. There’s a single old farmkeep fraying in the distance, and some of the rocks along the way have been painted with big sloping motifs.

-Le Pech-

I’m distracted, but even so, it’s a long walk. After an hour, the rocks meld too – I barely even clock Le Pech, the town that signifies I’m two thirds down. I pass by the couples and the woman in magenta again here (who waves to me), and continue straight on through. I really should take a break, but I’m walking slower than usual, and I’m already exhausted, which are both reasons that actually count towards me needing a break, but stubborn me didn’t grasp that at all.

Just as well though, because just about the second I pass the last of the town, the rain starts absolutely fucking bucketing. It’s coming down almost horizontal, and strong too – but still, no storm. As I weave past cool stone ruins and signs that lie to me (18km to Cahors turns to 21km after an hour, then dip back down to 15.9km, then jump to 22km!), I make my way up and over a hill or two, through a tunnel, and enter my most gruelling stretch for today – the highway.

You basically cross under it, then stick beside it as you climb the hill, then transfer to another main road and follow that one for a good hour or so, and it fucking sucks. I have no doubt it’d probably be less brutal if you hadn’t already walked a full day today, but my god. I just needed a rest stop where I could eat out of the rain!!!

The closest one to me is one by a soccer pitch, right on the way, but by the time I get there they’ve locked the inside area, and the rain is once again hammering – so I pass it by. Definitely a terrible idea; my poor blisters are so sore, and my feet are numb. But hey, Quintarde is barely another hour away, so just,,, keep going till you drop, I guess?

To my unending dismay, Quintarde is at the top of a hill. Not my hill – the next hill. Which requires a steep descent, and a steep ascent, and that is just not happening with these feet. At the bottom there’s a tiny bench, and I’ve never sat down faster. My shoes are off, my socks are off, my feet are disgusting, I’m cold, and I’ve walked,,, 28km ?? Either my tracker is way off, or Hartmut Engel was on an absolute monster of a bender when he wrote this godforsaken guidebook, because there’s only 5km to go till Cahors, if I’m to believe the signs. Forty is basically thirty, I suppose!

I make a (very) quick sandwich – the clouds are getting worrying now – and I’m definitely going to miss the SFR opening hours, so I’ll have to fix the SIM in the morning instead. But hey, campsites’ open till 8.00pm, so there’s that at least! I carry on, feet about to drop off, and tackle the climb. All things considered, it’s not that bad, but for unfit-tired-me it’s fucking brutal.

-Quintarde-

I’m staggering, I’m gasping for air, and I’m in a collection of houses that sees about eighty of me a day and evidently Do Not Give A Shit. Fair play. It’s 6.15pm, and the storm is due to break any minute; the sky is black and blistering, positively bubbling with rain. I try to be quicker, but I’m spent, mentally and physically – I clear Quintarde, but upon realising there’s still an hour to go, with a big downhill, and hearing the drumroll of thunder starting behind me, I give up.

It’s time to brave the tent outside again.

I spent too much money anyway, spoilt myself with sleeping inside most days. I’ve come to expect hot showers now – the gall! And so I set up again, for the first time since Dead Animal Night, trying to manoeuvre the fluro red into being somewhat less obvious. The ground here does not like me at all, all stony and hard and,, spikey?? The clouds have covered most of the sky now, so I tumble in, all damp, get dressed in my warmest clothes, bring everything inside and get ready for a lashing that never comes.

After all that, the clouds promptly dissipate and it’s sunny once more – for fucks sake. I write away my vague grumbles, try to ease my aching legs, and run out of all remaining data. Oh boy. At the very least, that set of problems will not have to come up again past tomorrow [AN : He says, very clearly Not foreshadowing anything]. Also, one last conundrum I was too tired to actually think through; I don’t have any water. Like, any. It’s bone dry in this tent, and should I sleep here, knowing I have another hour to walk till the chance for water comes up again? Absolutely not. Am I going to? Absolutely.

Anyway, lovely reader, I think I’m going to do something out of character tonight and go to bed early – I know, I know! It’s only 8.00pm, but here’s hoping it works! Sleep well, and I’ll update you – if we’re honest with each other – probably in a week or so (sorry!). Though, in my defence, I’ll release them all at once, so for you it’ll be more like Abra-!

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Day 33 – September 22nd

Limogne-en-Quercy to ???

31.1km

~ 342.3km total

€2.00

~ €440.14 total

(707.0km combined)

(€969.37 combined)