pocket-full-of-seaglass

-Moissac-

I woke up laaaaate today. Nearing on 10.00am – because honestly? Screw being a morning person, it was too fucking tiring, and more importantly, too fucking cold. I could honestly probably be persuaded if the general damp-and-freezing part of it didn’t exist but alas, it did. Tonight would be a night outside anyway, so I’m in no rush – it’s due to be a beautiful little meander down by the canals.

Naturally, all of my clothes are still sopping wet, which is awesome, so I squeeze all the available water out and hang them all off my pack, which is both exceptionally pilgrim of me, and also real goddamn heavy – same as with a wet tent, wet clothes weighed a lot. Cursing the stupid sun for not stupid working, I finally set off at a bright and early 11.20am, back across the bridge into Moissac.

It’s gorgeous, but hot, and for once I learn from the mistakes of yesterday and stop to put on sunscreen in the shade. There’s tons of pretty benches here, all under the shade in view of the big blue (at least from this angle) river, and they look like they would’ve been perfect spots to sleep, but the campsite was too clean for me to really complain!

You follow the river until you hit a factory-adjacent Thing, then you’ll fork right, dodging the last of the river Tarn and melding instead with the Garonne canal. Except, you don’t have to – today, I’m doing a variant. I know, right?? Who am I?? But hey, listen, it keeps me by the water and saves me 2.5km and several hills so that felt like a good trade. And if you, like me, are going to take this one, I should let you know that water can get a little boring.

You’re going to follow the same canal for h o u r s, and yes, you’re going to remember how spoilt you are when you think about that complaint a little too long, but my g o d. On the opposite side of the water are a set of traintracks, ones that send ripples all across the endless rectangle of gray-green water going out into the distance every time a train comes careening past. For the better part of the morning, they’re the most interesting thing you see.

I don’t think I see a human person till probably the third hour, sans one extraordinarily jolly frenchman practically bouncing along as he hummed ‘Don’t Go Breaking My Heart’ in-between fat drags of a cigarette. He doesn’t count, because I like to imagine him as closer to a modern God than a human; obvious drugs aside, I’ll take whatever he’s having, guy was on cloud ten.

You’re not just following the Garonne canal, though, you’re hemmed in by it; on your right the slim, slightly gross water of the canal, on your left the massive, glimmering river. No swimming, of course, because the French hate whimsy even more than they hate boardies!! The trees tower here – chestnut, I looked it up – sending big leaves swimming gently down to the ground, stretching long shadows over hot, tired pilgrims. One of whom is looking mighty familiar…..

Green Dress Lady!! She’s resting in the shade, and smiles in recognition when I pass her, but alas, we have no common language, so I pass her by with a wave. Ten minutes later, as I’m stopped to swap the clothes on my bag over – like the tans and all-too-frequent sunburns happen, clothes only ever dry on the left!! Another train, a leapfrog by the Green Dress Lady firmly combatted with a leapfrog back by me, a beight blue train this time and a bridge over the river. My first break is Malause though, so I don’t stop because this is – Malause?? I’m here ??

-Malause-

Brilliant, it’s one of those days where Hartmut Engel goes a little bonkers with the distance, my day is shorter than anticipated !! Hell yeah. I pass a small bank for disabled fishers which is very cool – albeit in direct sunlight with zero shade but that is besides the point!

Malause is also where the variant trail and main trail re-merge, so there’s two sets of stripes, both leading down to the canal. I’m ditching mine, and walking backwards up the main trail to get to the centre because I am hungry, and I want to save my food for tonight. About halfway up, I realise Green Dress Lady is also coming up, and I find myself really hoping she’s also getting something to eat and isn’t just blindly trusting me because ohhh boy is that misplaced!

In town, it dawns on me that it’s 2.00pm – there could be tumbleweeds and that one brow-row-roooow-row whistle and it wouldn’t be as desolate as this fucking town is right now. I go to to turn around, skirt back the way I came, but Green Dress Lady calls out, points in the direction of the arrows. Fuck, she was following me. I try to explain, but she shrugs and keeps walking. Fuuuck. I follow the actual arrows back, and we meet in the middle of the climb, heading back down, which gives me the unfortunate chance to watch the realisation hit her.

“Och, NEE!” transcends language.

She overtakes me almost instantly, and for once I don’t try to catch up – I need food. I’ll keep walking till I hit a bench, and then it’s time to r e s t. After Malause, the canal gets a little more interesting, this time lined with old, colourful houseboats, on which I feel like I could definitely be convinced to live,,,, there’s just something about the colour blue and mini gardens on the roofs that is so appealing!

I’m walking on and on and on, past women in neon pink having an absolute time, past worn boats covered in branches and water stains, and past oh so many cyclists. But after forty minutes of no bench, I ditch the requirement, find a perfect little grassy bank and drop. It’s soft, curves to fit my spine, and I lean against my pack as I enjoy some well-earned tuna salad and the end of a baguette, people-watch a little.

The cyclists are always the funniest – not the pilgrims, just the actual cyclists – speeding along in their skintight lycra and aerodynamic helmets and odd shoes, absolutely whizzing on by like they’re in the Tour du France. Hilarious. As I eat, I try to figure out where to spend the night – go fast, and get further, or slow down and rest in Auvillar?? Mmmm. Tip my head back, close my eyes, let the sunspots play pantomime behind my eyes. It’s warm, and the breeze is soft, and I’ve got all the time in the world. Auvillar it is.

And so I set off again, into the light, soundtracked by the tic-tic-tic of bike wheels :]

-Pommevic-

Pommevic is only a few minutes away, and has plenty of benches, but the lovely slope beats it any day. The shops are all closed now, as it nears 3.45pm, but the thing it does have, though, is water. Food can wait till Auvillar, water can not; I weave through the first few streets, stop at the little church area, go to the (mercifully clean) public bathroom, fill up water.

As I drink, I gaze into the strange tinted windows of the building opposite, try to figure what it is. Definitely not the Marie or the Church – what else is so important? Then I hear an (unrelated) scream, and promptly realise ‘ohhhh shit, the ecole’. I’ve been leering into a preschool window for like three minutes now. Awkwaaard.

I walk back to the Marie, continue on, hoping no one is coming to check on the accidentally creepy pilgrim outside, and rejoin the stripes at the main road. It takes me left at the roundabout and straight out of town, back across the Garonne river and into the fields for the first time today. Like most of today, there’s nobody in front, nobody behind. I’m alone, and this time it’s less of an ‘oh joy, solitude!’ and more of a ‘are you kidding me how is there another stretch??’. A lot of side-of-the-road walking follows, cars roaring past as Auvillar comes into view on the hill opposite.

-Espalais-

Except, of course, there’s one more false alarm to go. Espalais, right outside Auvillar, is a little cruel, but hey, who am I to judge. I stop at a bench, metal again – how is it still so comfy ?? – take a B&B. Bikkie and a breather, that is. Solves all ills. But seriously, it’s insane to me that long straight flat stretches are worse than the climbs, but my god. I hate them! So exhausting for n o reason!!!

Butt at the very least, Espalais means we’re so close now – keep going!!! I get back up, wander past open gîtes with comfy camping spots (breathe, carry on, don’t break), try to distract from the mental lapse I’m having. And I do love towns right as the sunlight switches from ‘hey I’m the sun!’ to ‘~hello, I’m the sun~’ and gets all orange and lovely and bright and turns all the stunning white buildings red and lights up the brightly coloured shutters and flowers and the blue sky and aaarrghh !! Every afternoon was a postcard :]

Speaking of postcards, why the fuck are the French so good at them ??? They’re so gorgeous and pretty and it’s s o hard not to buy every one I see – even if they’re sadly locked up behind the glass of closed newsagents. I catch my eyes in the reflection, snort out of reflex; my hair melts down to my cheeks, distorted and stretched in the wavy glass. I wave to myself, pass on by to the quaint little courtyard housing several older pilgrims all hanging out in the shade and talking with the locals, surrounded by wild cats and little dogs. That is to say, it’s all very cute, and I smile as I pass them, cross the bridge.

-Auvillar-

Not two metres after the crossing, I arrive at the towns’ aire de picnic (ten bucks if you can translate); directly next to the bridge, the main road, and houses. Shit. That might complicate things a little – maybe they have another one?? I make the sharp little climb up to the cool old circular market hall, all big stone pillars and inscriptions, in which many a showered pilgrim is exploring, and tourists are photographing.

I’m on the hunt for a better spot to sleep, and a supermarket. Five minutes later, I’m zero for two. Six minutes later, I’m one for two. There’s a Petit Casino that charges almost €4 for a tiny punnet of cherry tomatoes (are they crazy!?), which I buy (am I crazy!?), plus some lemonade and baguette (bagless, because of course). [AN : Please know that when searching for a better word than ‘bagless’ the first two words that came to mind were, in quick succession, ‘unsheathed’ and ‘uncircumcised’, so if anyone had any complaints about that, re-sheath it, it could be worse!]

I check the last little green spot on the map, and it does have a table, but it’s just a circle of grass in the main square so maybe not. I see a different green spot out of the corner of my eye, and hopefully make my way towards it – but alas, it’s just a parking spot by the pharmacy I walked past when I entered the town!!

So, for the first time pretty much all trip, I intentionally backtrack. I walk all the way back down, past the pharmacy and the market hall and the house with the red door with the cool drawing of the wolf on it. All the way back down to those not-so-perfect benches by the river. I half set up, unsheathe my baguette (immensely fucking funny actually maybe I will stick with that), enjoy a lovely makeshift dinner down by the water.

It’s still a while to go till sunset, so I sit and laze and try to write. It’s harder when I’m behind :[ I don’t like playing catch-up – but I also can’t write every day, not with enough detail, so that’ll be something to work on – whoops! For now though, I scribble about days prior and listen to the lovely French ambience, which tonight consists mostly of cute old people talking loudly in the streets – and yelling at their dogs – mixed with the roaring of cars speeding past the bridge.

As it really get dark, I start to set up in the light of the bridge. Tables are not my favourite, ranking lowest on the list of public infrastructure possible to sleep on. Minus swings – I imagine that’s a little more difficult. But the tables can be made better with a surprise addition : towels! Hang it like a little hammock between the actual table and the seat, and hold it down with you and your pack respectively, then no matter how much you turn, you don’t fall through the crack! Score.

Top tip number two; check for spiders before you lay down. A quick, quiet – incredibly masculine – shriek later, and I’ve jumped the table and set up on the other side. Fuck the scuttly little bastards! Sure, they were tiny here, but my god, absolute creeps. As I re-un-roll my sleeping bag again, I hear the big rustle of leaves, the wooosh of the wind; and I wince, bracing for the cold – but it never comes! I’m so shocked at the warmth of the wind that I sit bolt upright, trying to convince myself it’s real. And it i s.

Lovely Reader, it’s time for me to go – a warm night cannot be taken for granted, and I refuse to let it be spent not in a sleeping bag! I hope you’re warm and comfortable with your table-seat-towel-hammock-bed – the air is w a r m and s w e e t and the s t a r s are out and the streetlights are g o l d and so are the le a v e s and I fall asleep smiling; hopefully you do too :]

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Day 37 – September 26th

Moissac to Auvillar

19.5km

~ 437.3km total

€5.80

~ €523.94 total

(802.0km combined)

(€1,053.17 combined)