pocket-full-of-seaglass

-Auvillar-

I think of all the nights so far, yesterdays was most disorientating. My switch to the other side of the table had been great for my peace of mind, just not so great for my eyes, which were now absolutely blinded by the yellow streetlights. I’d doubled up; sleep mask covered with my beanie, but kept having to tug them on and off, convinced I could hear something. Of course, most times, I could – but they were almost always just drunk people wandering home, which, although not my favourite crowd, was much better than my constant oh-shit-what-if-its-the-cops fear.

At one point, I half woke up, confused as to why the stars were still out, then remembered the sun had started to take longer to rise, checked my phone convinced it could only be another thirty minutes or so, only to find it was 3.14am, and not a soul was awake. Oh, and everything I owned was absolutely soaked. I guess being near a river the condensation is worse? Or maybe it was because of the initial warmth (which had definitely worn off by now)? It definitely hadn’t rained, but my sleeping bag was damp – thankfully, only the outside – and everything else was covered in water. Helpfully, I decided that was a problem for actual morning me, and rolled back over to sleep.

At 6.45am, I actually woke up, but it was even darker than yesterday had been, and the sun wasn’t even showing hints yet. And so I decided I wouldn’t either. Yeah, I was in a yellow sleeping bag in direct view of everyone, but until I heard the first people start to move, I was not getting out of this sack. Naturally, someone immediately turned on a bedroom light, prompting a groan and my retreat from the warmth.

Now I was awake, and cold, and had to deal with the fact that everything was wet, including the clothes I had so painstakingly tried to dry over the past day. I tugged my towel out from underneath my bag, did my best to dry everything on the also-damp wood of the table, repacked it all. Damp, but sorted. Getting changed was a brutal task this morning, but it was helped with the fact I had access to a bathroom and didn’t have to risk mooning someone!

I brushed my teeth, tried to roughly make my hair look like someone who hasn’t slept on a bench all night, which is much harder than it sounds when (1) you definitely did sleep on a bench all night, and (2) you don’t have a mirror to work with. Eventually, I’m ready to go at a crisp 7.20am; not bad! And, just because I’m sure no-one’s sick of hearing it yet, it’s so, so, so cold.

I retrace my retraced steps from yesterday back into the centre of Auvillar, past the dead streets and closed cafes, and follow the distant clicks I hear up ahead (and the stripes, but y’know). I completely understand using trekking poles, and I honestly know I probably should, but I just can’t bring myself to, not in towns at least – I’d go fucking mental living on the camino, hearing nothing but click-click-click-click 24/7.

Anyway, second-hand embarrassment aside and mentally apologising to every house we pass, the little bottle-neck of early starters (for once, I’m amongst them!) make our way up and out, to the top of the hill the town is draped across, where we’re rewarded with a fantastic sunrise, all red and glowing and massive, cutting through the thick fog. I don’t get a photo, I don’t even try – they never capture the beauty quite right, and I’d rather not look away for a second longer than I have to.

But soon, it’s time to keep moving, however brief my pause of awe may have been. Yesterday was short, but exhausting, and I’m hoping that’ll balance out and make today long but re-energising – I have a ways to go to reach Lectoure; thirty odd kilometres, to be more specific (vaguely). I’m trying to mash two stages into one, but I have something on my side; time. Lectoure has no campsite, and the gîtes are all on the more expensive side, so it’ll be another night outside – which essentially means I have till about 8.00pm, the last light, to find somewhere. And after almost forty days, I do trust the camino – I’ve never actually not found anywhere to sleep by the time it gets dark (minus the very first night, but even then, there was a bench). There’s always a field, always a gite, always a bench. Always water and a toilet, even if they somehow vanish when you need them.

So I was optimistic as I continued, smiling to myself as I crossed fields of (English) mist, dark and thick and heavy. It was a beautiful morning, and I could already recognise some packs, which was always nice. I liked having regulars :] There were the blue group of three I’d passed ages ago, on the day leading into Cajarc, laughing and walking tandem – very cute, I liked them a lot. And there was the British woman from the Discovering-Tuna-Salads morning, who I kept thinking was the Australian (she was not), who had the big navy pack – and the shell, of course. Classic.

They popped up here and there, but they were way ahead, so it was more glimpses-through-the-fog than actual,, sightings? But it was still nice :] I was stuck behind an older guy merrily meandering along for a bit because I felt too awkward to try to get around him, but eventually I managed to, even getting a smile in! Basically a natural :]

Most of the first section was road-shoulder walking, just those beaten up feet on asphalt for hours, nothing like it! But occasionally we’d be in for a treat, and get a little earth path beside it instead. It’s on one of these paths that I pass a few new people too; a bald man with a little thermal headband to cover his ears, which was a teensy bit funny to me, and a woman in white chugging along who I think heard say “fuck this bastard [the hill]” but it also might just be what I really wanted her to be saying because fuck that bastard of a hill!!

Like everything, once I had cleared it and no longer was actively climbing the hill, climbing the hill was super easy. Hindsight can still give you rose,,, shades,,, yeah okay maybe the phrasing needs a little work, shove off <33 Anyway, after every up there comes a down (which is a much less reassuring version of the saying), and this down leads you down a precarious little muddy path, where halfway through you’ll switch departments, as announced by a cheery sign to your left. From what I’d gathered by barely paying attention to my surroundings, Frances’ departments were not states, but more,,, federal electorates?? I think?? Add it to the list of Things To Look Up whenever I next get reception!

At the bottom of this uneven path, there’s a little family enjoying the Wednesday tradition we all remember doing – shoving Big Logs into a mulcher and getting very excited when they Get Mulched. C’mon, you remember it right?? Every Wednesday?? When there is definitely school?? That little eight year old is having the best sickie of his life to date, I think. As you’re nearing it, you’ll also almost have a heart attack because one of the logs rolls very quickly towards the dude with the mulcher and shoves him forward and he almost Gets Mulched – but luckily, he presses the emergency stop just as he gets shoved forward. Jesus Christ!

The pure second-hand adrenaline rush that provides sends me coasting along down the street, over the motorway and over the next hill, where I catch up with the Blue Trio! Perfect timing too, because I almost miss the turn into town following someone else’s backpack – whoops!

-Saint-Antoine-du-Pont-d’Arratz-

Take a guess at the two words I will use to describe this very small, very cute French town – no hints! Kidding – it is very cool though, all painted shutters and doors and flowerpots, and in classic French fashion, made of approximately one street. I walk through the whole thing by accident, past the solitary cafe and out onto the path before realising and turning around, scooting back around the earlier pilgrims enjoying their coffee for the morning. I plonk myself down by the church, where the Blue Trio soon arrive, greeting me with smiles and waves, then moving on to the cafe.

I stick with my pesto tomato sandwich, enjoy my morning of people-watching. Once again, I’m one of the earlier ones, and just my luck – I get to see a few familiar faces :] First on the list is the woman with the Kind Face, who waves enthusiastically and then comes over to tell me she thought I was eating pesto and strawberries! She’s followed almost immediately by Green Dress Woman, who points and laughs, comes over to say goodmorning <33 I’m glad she’s forgiven me for accidentally leading her up a hill she didn’t need to climb!

The person who went the wrong way at the entryway arrives too, thankfully, and as she leaves my line of vision and joins her friends at the cafe I hear distinctly American accents start from the opposite direction, and hoooly shit they have voices for the record. They have like,,, default American. Standard American Voices. Like if you imagine The American Accent (TM) from any show ever, they have it. It’s awesome, I feel like I’m in an ad, and all they’re selling is random medicines – seriously, what was it with Americans and constantly talking about fucking medicine, it was bizarre.

I also see the British Woman and All-Black Guy, who beeline for their various groups, and essentially this is just a massive reunion episode I think! Lots of returning characters, lots of coffee and pastries, lots of money I do not want to spend so down another sandwich and god I’m so glad pesto exists. To be clear; rocket pesto. Regular pesto does in a pinch, but rocket pesto?? Mmmmm. Perfect. Infinitely better than the weak French breakfast.

Headband Guy from the fog arrives and greets two American women sitting by the cafe, and, for the first time in almost forty days of being in this godforsaken country, I hear ‘ooh la la!’ in natural conversation for the first time. And Dear Reader, it almost brings a tear to my eye – what a beautiful language :’]

As I go to pack up, Kind Face re-emerges from around the corner, tells me to ‘wait! wait!‘ – so I pause, confused.

“I have sum-zing for you!”

And she smiles, and hands me half of a pastry, and I swear to God the sun got a little brighter.

“Eet is fantas-tique!”

I thank her, then thank her again because once doesn’t seem like enough, but she just waves me off, wanders back to the cafe. Is this love? I think I’m in love.

The pastry is some sort of burnt-almond-filled-dough-pastry topped with meringue and it’s fucking incredible, she was not kidding at all about the fantas-tique thing!! It’s sweet but not overbearing, and I’m grinning as I get up to actually leave, dusting the icing sugar off my pants as I do (the thing is messy okay, leave me alone!).

I head up and out, towards Flaramans, once again following the three blue backpacks I’ve come to know so well :] We pass dead sunflowers and a few new faces, and I’m pushed on with the help of a lot of Hozier and some daydreams – it’s shaping up to be a very hot day.

I arrive with the goal of finding a public WC, but evidently miss the turnoff and find myself up by the church and rest stop instead. This one has sorbet, and it takes all my self-control not to sit down – but no!!! On it is – I want to hit Miradoux before midday. It’s another mash day, where I shove two stages together, and Miradoux will be a little over halfway – that’s worthy of a break.

As I leave, however, I take one last, longing look back at the sorbet, and see a sign I’ve,,, never seen before?? In the little centre of Flaramans, there’s a patch of green, on which stands a sign advising pilgrims that bivvies and sleeping sacks are permissible here between the hours of 10.00pm and 6.00am!! Which is immensely cool – I’ll have to keep a lookout for more of those!

And here, sadly, I pass the Blue Trio for what I now know is the last time :[ They’re resting in the shade, and I wave, joke that I’ll see them later. In other words; I fucking jinx it !!!!!! Nooooooo !!!! The road out leads you down down down, past a stand selling some sort of cherry cake-flan thing, which I buy two of because oh my god? Yes please. All-Black Guy is here too, drinking some coffee, and he nods to me as I pass.

A little more Hozier, a few hills, the slowly dawning realisation that I forgot to put sunscreen on again and then suddenly, in the blink of an eye, a second, the distance between one step and the next, the air takes form and holy fucking shit you can see the mountains!!

You can see the fucking Pyrenees!!!

You can see the end!!!

And they’re fucking awesome, towering over everything all over again! I missed the mountains s o bad, the most beautiful part of this entire trek so far was easily the Alps right at the start of the Gebennensis, they’re so incredible to look at!! I’m staring at them as I weave downhill, and as I overtake Green Dress Lady and a Woman in Orange, and I lose sight of them when we dip between vast rolling hills of dead sunflowers, husks decaying dry into the ground, but I find them again at the Miradoux welcome sign.

-Miradoux-

There’s a swift, brutal climb up to the town, but I barely process (lie – sweat dripping in your eyes is hard to ignore), just focus on the mountains. They’re dim, hazy in the sunlight, and you sort of have to squint to make them out from the clouds, but they’re there. My phone isn’t even close to picking them up yet, but my eyes can just about do the trick.

I head up and over into town, sit opposite the little picnic spot currently full of the British Woman and a very speedy guy who overtook me earlier. But my bench is in the shade, and features some lovely little breezes, so I can’t complain :] I refill some very much needed water – fresh and cold, mmm – and get ready for a Long break. I play catch-up a little, but eventually tire of it, opting instead to eat my delicious cherry mystery in the company of a very sleepy tuxedo cat, who sits on the wall by me, watches me.

So I talk to him, because of course I do. Spill my guts. Cannot recommend it enough – not only do you admit your worries out loud, but you also now get to hear how absolutely stupid they sometimes sound. A few of them suck, no way to spin it, sure. But when you hear yourself, out loud, say something along the lines of;

“What if now everyone is in uni and you aren’t, you’re just the dumb immature one (valid concern), and you’ll be playing catch-up forever trying to make up time (also valid concern) and (imagine this all building to a mental crescendo) what if no-one finds pigs named Bernard funny anymore!?!?”

Boom. Immediately funny. That was a concern?? Seriously?? Pig named Bernard was causing me mental stress?? Pull it together mate.

A woman with a yellow backpack comes and sits down beside me, at about the same time Headband Lady waves from across the street and takes the spot British Woman has just vacated. She (Yellow Backpack Lady) smiles at me, starts to have a rest, when a friend of herd comes over and thrusts an apple towards me. Thankyou?? I mix up my words as I take it, not prepared for the gesture, and accidentally say ‘goodnight‘, essentially telling the poor woman to go away!!! But don’t worry, I don’t notice till she’s long gone, so there’s one more thing I’ll think about forever <33

An hour later, I’m recharged and ready to go – it’s 13km before my bed for the night, and it’ll be another bench night so I’ve got time. As I set off again, I realise why today has felt different; it’s dry. You can see the drought here, all varying yellow-grays, cracked dirt and thirsty trees, brown, flat, unplowed fields, rusted rigs rusted still. You’ll follow the path down a little hill, sticking to the sides of the roads – but only for a few hundred metres, where you’ll cut across a field of the same dead, dry grass. You’ll climb agonisingly slowly to the highpoint, following the black backpack of a different guy all the way down the other side.

At the top, you have a killer view of two opposing churches; one to the left, skewering the skyline, all sharp and pointy and cool, and one to the right, Château de Gachepuoy, an old, crumbling relic of a time past, disintegrating in the heat. And the one to the right won hands down – dead architecture was way more naturally stunning than its alive counterpart could ever be. Keep walking; the rough, parched dirt carries you all the way to the road leading into town.

-Castet-Arrouy-

Now, you were going to stop here, but you reconsider once you arrive; it’s chockers, the single little courtyard absolutely brimming with people – Headband Lady, Yellow Backpack Lady, and both Black Backpack guys included. I move on instead, wave at the familiars as I pass, make my way to Lectoure. For about two seconds at least, till I hit shade by the side of the road and immediately decide that y’know what, I could go for a nap actually.

As I doze, I’m passed by Camo Green Backpack Guy and British Woman, who both laugh as they do, with a quick ‘sleep well!’. I’m planning to sleep for thirty minutes, but ten minutes later I’m far more conscious than I’d like, so it’s time to get going! As it would turn out, I’m not missing much; the next few hours are a lot of long stretches after each other, which is incredibly draining on a day as hot as today!! According to one pharmacy I passed, it’s somewhere around 37* right now – not ideal walking temperatures.

But hey, at least the first stretch is shaded, so that’s immensely welcome for a weary walker. After an eternity, I cross the road, pass a few houses, cross again, enter the fields and enter my second stretch. This time, it actually does feel never-ending; my legs feel like stone, and each step requires all of my mental stamina. I want to lay down forever, this is ,,, intense. I’m at just about 20km, which is always where my roadblock sits, mental or otherwise, and today is no different; not a single muscle in my body wants to walk.

The only – and I stress the only part – thing pushing me forward is the knowledge that I’ll be able to restock food. I’m down to the crumbs of some Pringles (which I down now, feeling faint), a can of tuna and enough of my regulars to cobble together one measly half-sandwich. I’m real fucking hungry, so both of those will be tonights late lunch/early dinner – I’ll need more for the morning.

I don’t stop to eat, which is probably daft, but in my defence, if I sat down to eat right now, I’d spend the night on the path. I knew myself well enough to know stopping now would be the end of today, and that would not work. I also needed water. I was a bit of a mess today, organisationally speaking. Didn’t have the faintest grasp on pre-planning, despite my best efforts.

So it was on to Lectoure! This time, the false alarm towns actually do almost shatter me, especially when they have accomodation,,,,,, but no!! Food !! Water !! Money !! Think, you tired fucker, think !! I pass more fields, over and over again, past one guy setting fire to the sunflowers, thick black smoke rising from the embers. I breathe it in a little deeper than I probably should, but I can’t help it! I miss campfires so bad, camping wasn’t even close to right without them.

I’d basically grown up inside the (allegedly) three-person OzTrails tents, knew how to set them up like the back of my hand, could probably do it blindfolded at this point, the amount of times I’ve helped the students get them sorted. Set them up for fun as a kid, slept the night in the garden. Forced my brother to have competitions to see who could set up the best, gloat when my first aid supplies were better than his. Y’know, classic sibling shit.

I’ve spent more nights around a campfire than I can count, back on the red dirt, watching floating embers mesh with the milky way. Listening to Creation Stories, tales of rocks and boats and goannas, coffee-rock sunsets and the rope swings down the road. So smoke brought me back there, to the fires I built with sticks we collected, to the classes I got to sit in on, the things I learnt in classrooms where the walls were Pandanas palms, swaying in the wind, where the crash of waves competes with the teachers.

But, curiously, I now had a second category of not-quite-nostalgia; one of cold wind and thick pine forests, of a hemisphere opposite my own. Sitting around a very different kind of fire, small and contained, a fire-pit of perfectly placed bricks, rather than the mishmash of stones I knew so well, had made so many times before. It was pre-bought marshmallow sticks, the feeling of their back against my chest, warm and surrounded by a life a world away from me; but feeling at home, comforted by the differences.

It was always fun, looking back on the stages – it seemed bizarre I’d only really met him a few months ago. And even before that, it felt like everything slotted into categories; there was capital c Childhood, of course, that carried us all the way to twelve, then there was the Just Pulling Through chapter, which took the better part of the last six years, and for the last few months it’s finally just felt like,,, Life ?? Oddly enough, being away from everything and everyone was where it all made sense; I was just in the latest phase. And when I did finally go back, I’d just be in another one. That was very reassuring :]

And boom – we’re at the final town before Lectoure. Do try to daydream a little more, wouldn’t you :]?

Tarissan is marked by a fruit stall by the side of the road, and about three houses, so it doesn’t quite warrant its own heading, but from the top you can see two things; (1) the mountains :] and for the first time, your phone can pick them up – even if it’s ever so dimly! And (2), a little more pressing, is Lectoure.

It’s cruel, with such large buildings; the distance always seems shorter, the place closer. But no – another hours walk beside the road awaits you, as you force your knackered feet to keep going just a little longer.

You follow the arrows, up and up and down, and that guy in that field is walking weirdly, right? Like you’re seeing that too, it isn’t just me?? He keeps sort of leaning, jumping. And he’s got dogs too and – hey what’s he holding??

BANG! BANG! BANG!

A gun is what he’s holding. Okaayyy. A hunter – first one I’ve actually seen, but the gunshots aren’t too uncommon. What is new, though, is the fact that now I can see what he’s shooting. And it’s,,,,, birds??

All this time, they’ve been shooting fucking birds?? Every time I’m outside and hear them I convince myself it’s wild boar or big animals and it’s pig e o ns ???? What the fuck is even the point of shooting birds ??? Surely any meat that could be helpful would be decimated with a bullet ??? What??

The hunter shakes his head at me as I pass, disappointed, which is confusing but immensely funny, and I sort of want to shake mine back, really convey the ‘are you seriously attempting to shoot pigeons with a rifle are you perhaps crazy?‘.

-Lectoure-

Anyway, old gun-slinging Frenchman aside, I reach the Lectoure sign about three seconds before I reach the hill and if one more stupid fucking beautiful French town put its welcome at the foot of a big old incline I was going to do something drastic. Don’t know what that is yet, but rest assured I’m considering it as I make the climb!

At the very least, I have company in my privileged misery; British Woman. My only goal right now is just to catch up with her, but I let her get well ahead as I pass the cemetery, pause to take a look. It’s ancient and massive, sprawling across the length of the mountain base – and it’s entirely family crypts. Lovingly, I could not imagine a single thing worse. Burials are bad enough, locked in a single grave plot with my entire family forever,,,,, stuff of nightmares. When I die, cremate me and chuck me into the Pacific!! Or like,, leave me somewhere for a bit till all I am is Bones and then make me into a highly unethical science-classroom skeleton that kids configure to look like it’s waving or shocked or dancing or any of the several less innocent positions. Anything but those two options is off fucking limits.

Then again, I’d literally be dead, why would I get a say! I’ll be all Nothing, which is actually quite cool. I had a somewhat spiritual connection with death as a kid, real Buddhist type-shit, reincarnation, afterlife (is that Buddha??), and then when I hit puberty decided to trade that in for insanely angsty and somewhat troubling relationships with the idea of death, and now it had just sort of evened out.

Don’t believe in the afterlife, don’t believe in Hell or Heaven, don’t believe in reincarnation; don’t believe in shit basically!! If anything, I’m really hoping none of them exist; it sort of ruins the fun to get a Biblical Second Chance. In fact, the only thing that ruins the general beauty of life more than a second go round, is the fact that I’ve just caught up and overtaken British Woman and walked the entire length of Lectoure and there is not one goddamn shop. Fuck.

I sit on a bench just past the thermal baths at the end of the street, desperately long to go in. It’s all urban too, so nowhere to sleep, and I really start to spiral before remembering ‘oh yeah, I need to eat‘. I crack open the tuna salad, chow down on it and a few cherry tomatoes. Finally not hungry, my brain can now actually think – and almost immediately I spot a little information sign with a rough map. Perfect. It even shows the picnic spots – even better!!

It’s back down opposite the cemetery. For f u c k s sake. For the second day in a row, I backtrack, all the way back down, diverting to another street as I do in a last ditch attempt to find food, bur no luck. I do find a gourmet gelato store though, but for €2.50 a scoop, my brain goes ‘NO!!’ and pushes me on down to a half cornerstore/half tabac shop that sells a European version of the smartie ice cream I remember from my childhood, which I pay €2.60 for without blinking. [AN : I imagine my dad head in his hands going ‘M a x’ in his vaguely-German disappointed voice every time I think about this, which only makes it funnier].

And it’s fucking awful too, there aren’t even smarties in the handle what have the Europeans d o n e to it?? And I mean, it’s probably for the best – never meet your idols, and all that – but still! I was looking forward to some nostalgia! Ahhh well. I fill up (cold!) water from the cathedral, head back the way I came,,,, again.

As I’m backtracking, I see a sign I missed from earlier, that points in the direction of camping. And that is enough to turn me without a moments pause – I’m so fucking sore, I need a shower. But, for some unknown fucking reason, the place is reserved solely for camping cars. Little insane, but sure. It is also full of some furious looking hikers, sans backpacks, all of whom are absolutely powerwalking around this campground. I’m a little fascinated – the fuck are they doing??

As it would transpire, it’s a fucking trekking pole bootcamp, complete with whistle-blowing instructor (and not the good kind), and these people are working for it. Racing each other, spinning in circles. I have to force myself to walk away or I’ll just stare at them all afternoon. So I walk all the way down to the cemetery, halfway down the climb, and realise the park could have been accessed by the road the campsite was on, try to not tell my feet.

It’s,,,, not great, but it’s something. I’m not taking stock of any of my surroundings just yet, though, because there’s a clean public toilet and I don’t care about anything else yet. When I’m done, I sit outside, write a little, try to wile away the last of the daylight, but soon an almighty click-click-click begins to start and – you guessed it! – the bootcamp arrives through the bushes. They charge up and down the incline, seemingly to see who can do it quickest, while the very intense instructor yells “PUSH!! P U S H!!“

I’m trying so hard not to make eye contact or laugh but m y god it’s a little hilarious. As they leave, one or two roll their eyes at me, widen them in a ‘get me out of this hell‘ sort of way, and that definitely breaks me a little, gets me to giggle. But there’s no saving them now!! They’re off and power-walking away. I get changed, wash my shirt, go to hang it up but as I do, something catches my eye. A tent symbol. What?

Tents are accepted anytime??? Oh thank g o d. I’m getting swarmed with mozzies, the worst so far, and I’m covered in little blood spots like some lunatic who only kills tiny tiny creatures. I set up oh so very quickly, chuck everything in and zip it up, kill the twelve that have made their way in with me. The others are vying for a taste, sticking through the mesh to try to get to me. Rank.

I write a little longer, but I can’t catch up – just too. fucking tired lately. Walking late is crazy exhausting. I’m also crazy hungry. I’m saving the bread end for breakfast, because god knows I need something in the morning before walking, and I’d just have to figure something out for the rest. So I curl up, try to ignore my growling stomach. Can’t win them all! So we meet again! Sorry I’ve been a bit all over the place recently; hormones, or something. I hope you’re well :] I miss seeing you at the end of the day – we should do it more, Unnamed Reader. Like,, tomorrow maybe? We’ll see how you’re feeling, but I’ll be here <33

---

Day 38 – September 27th

Auvillar to Lectoure

30.9km

~ 468.2km total

€3.20

~ €527.14 total

(832.9km combined)

(€1,056.37 combined)