pocket-full-of-seaglass

-Lectoure-

My first fevered wakeup happens at 12.19am, where I find myself bolt upright, bleary and delirious, without a sleeping bag, disgusting and damp.

I can’t get to Condom AND get food.

To make it I’d leave too early, and get to the town with a shop in the midday pause. I momentarily think about leaving now, but that’s so absolutely insane that I ditch it almost immediately, settle for a shorter day – gives me longer to sleep anyway.

I set new alarms, figure out a whole new plan, half asleep and feeling horrific, then fall asleep fitfully, tossing and turning. I wake before my alarms anyway, at 8.30am, in a tent slick with morning dew, pegs pulled out in the night. Grotty. Packing up is quicker this morning, what with the cold and the wet and the mosquitos, so I’m ready by 8.45am, enjoying the end of the bread and the last of my food, passing away the last 15min before shops start to open.

Or, so I’d hoped. With no map or navigational abilities, and no-one in sight, I gave up. One Petit Casino later, and I emerged with some milk and cookies – which was, besides some babybell cheese, all they had on the shelves!! It was close to shutting down (or close to opening?), so they were very understocked. Not great for them, or me – nor was the knowledge that there was a campsite in town, if I’d only walked five more minutes. But hey, sleeping inside, legally, for free with a toilet is not something to take for granted!

I figure I’ll coast along on sugar until I find something – Hartmut Engel has been wrong about the availability of shops before, he could be wrong about them again! The way out of town is really fucking cool though, you retrace my exact steps from yesterday (aaargh!), take them about a minute further, find several Perfect Benches (are you kidding me), and then enter this massive old watch-tower-thing and climb through it, down rickety old stairs into the basement and back out onto the lower hills of Lectoure. And then, like always, it’s off into the heat.

It’s a breezy little morning, and I feel good; even if the shops being closed/impossible to find meant I could’ve made it to Condom, this gives me a bit of a break – the last few days have felt very long, and I’ve just generally felt drained lately. So I deliberately force myself to go slowly, especially because I’m camping, and check-in closes late – I’ve essentially got eight odd hours to walk eighteen and a half kilometres. The only thing moving me along is the heat; it’s burning hot, with no shade to be found, just a Lot of road-walking – hot, sticky asphalt and blinding sun.

I walk past a few houses, a few settlements. Past a few gates with no fences which is one of my favourite European things because ???? Okay dude, all you’ve done is make it harder for you to get to your house, and people can still just walk in. Only thing funnier than the concept is watching people walk up their driveways and open the intricate gate instead of stepping a metre to the left. Hilarious.

After an hour, Lectoure vanishes into the shimmering horizon, and I sizzle with the yellow grass for kilometres. I don’t see a single car, a single person, a single cow. Until the church spire comes into view forty-five minutes later, I could be the only person in the world.

-Marsolan-

Marsolan is small (shocker), but it has a church with cold water and shade, so right now it’s perfect :] There’s an older guy sitting on the bench with three bags next to him, who’ll soon be joined by two very friendly women, who will be very judgemental of my airing feet, but they’ll come later.

I enjoy a bikkie or two, drink some delicious tepid milk on the verge of curdling. Yum yum yum! Then it’s just my head tilted back on cold concrete walls, listening to music and trying to pretend I’m not being eaten alive. This is the problem!! It’s either sunburn or Victim, and I don’t particularly enjoy either!! And today, victimhood beats me, forces me to stand far too early, shoulder the pack and remembering water makes it heavier.

Listen, I know the whole bladder vs. bottle thing is a whole heated debate, but how the fuck do people survive without a water bladder?? Like,, on any route but the Frances?? Do I just drink an insane amount of water?? I feel like I go through way too much to put my trust in water bottles, especially with the frequency of French water fountains and their general tendency to disappear whenever they’re needed. But hey, to each their own!

On the way out of town I pass a house being held up with a solitary stick, which is sort of exciting, and then it’s just back to ups and downs for awhile, hemmed in with more of those insanely green fields. Here, you’ll pass One Tree, and maybe accidentally scare one of the women as you go to pass them (add it to the list!), and probably be chuckling all the way till you reach the old man soldiering on ahead, sweat literally dripping off him. I fucking feel you mate.

To give you an idea of how exciting this stretch is, let me just tell you that the highlight of the morning was seeing a Big Stack of haybales around a corner. Seriously, like a ‘oh thank god‘ moment was a bit of hay that was bigger than it usually is. You’re on gravel roads for what feels like a decade in this heat, but eventually there’s some houses, some shade you can dutifully pause to smell the flowers (literally – we’re still going slow, conserving energy,,,, probably!)

A little past the houses the gravel road splits again, visibly crossing several hills before vanishing into the horizon. Noooooo. The last kilometre or two have never felt so long – y’know what?? There’s nobody around; it’s Beach Boys time. I out on my little mix, sing along all high-pitched and wheezy, trying to reach the borderline sonar harmonies they somehow have, passing a parked tractor I don’t realise has someone inside it, keep doing the eeeee-eee-eeeiiiiee until you get lightheaded and faint, then process the guy laughing and accept defeat.

I keep half-mumble-singing as Tractor Guy moseys on past me, watch him trundle off into the distance, try to distract myself with anything, anything to get me to this stupid fucking town (crucial; I mean this in the Australian way, where anything I like is bullied!!!). After an eon, I finally enter the shade of the forest, and after one final climb, enter the little flat section before I reach the town.

Cross a road or two, pass a few pilgrims sitting in the shade, just generally meander down through various orchards and plantations until you hit an absolutely stunning flower garden with a €2 entry which is now number one on my list of Things To Do Today. Massive blooms of purple, red, yellow, blue. The trees tower, sweet benches in the shade and ice cream in the welcome area. I am so coming back here. And then I see the church :]

-La Romieu-

As I do, I’m immediately passed by a Person in White and the original All-Black Guy, who fall into step together ahead of me. But I’m not worried about catching up, not today – right now, I just want to shower, doze and write. We wind through the park, where a crazy looking bright red structure made of ‘sleep cabinets’ sits ?? Which sounds like a wildsleep opportunity someone that isn’t me needs to test out. Not that I don’t want to – but this park does not have showers, so it loses.

Anyway, a little past the park you turn left at the roundabout (to the right are signs for the campsite, but you need food first), head into the ‘centre’ of town, the little courtyard, where countless pilgrims are enjoying the shade of restaurant overhangs. Unfortunately for you, however, it’s 3.00pm on a Thursday – not a single shop is open. Okay, no, I stand corrected; a gelato shop is open, and today my frugality is too busy melting in a corner to give a toss. A scoop for €3 or three for €6,,,,, when you think about it, it’s almost like I’m saving money!

Mango, peach/apricot and orange,,,, yum. I fucking LOVE sorbet – is this adulthood?? I think I like sorbet more than gelato now, and that’s basically like maturing, right?? Nah, probably just the summer; gelato is a winter food. I find a perfect little blue metal bench, take my shoes off, enjoy the afternoon. La Romieu is known for their cats, who poke out of every garden, from between every fence, meandering over red terracotta roofs. The town responded to the population by putting statues of cats everywhere, in every window, by every fountain. I’m having a great time – I love the little bastards, environmental bombs that they are.

After thirty odd minutes of people (cat) watching, I do decide it probably is a good idea to get to the campsite and reserve a spot for dinner – fingers crossed the price isn’t too brutal! So, again, I tug my boots back on and hobble out of town. And, also again, I wonder to myself what the fuck Hartmut Engel was on – the book says 250m, the signs directly tell you 600m. My guy, what are you doing??

But luckily, none of that matters at all, because when I arrive, the campsite is shut early for the season. And so is the restaurant. Fuck. That presents more than one problem; firstly, I haven’t had a shower in two days. One isn’t that bad, like I can explain it away with German DNA, but two is,,, it’s rough. I don’t want to imagine three!! Secondly, I haven’t eaten in a Very long time now. I am a testosterone filled teenage boy – this just doesn’t work, especially not walking for so long. The closest supermarkets would be in Condom. Smooth segue into problem three; there’s not really space to sleep till Condom either. There’s about 20 beds in La Romieu, and maybe 6 I can afford. But I’ve already seen pilgrims take the variant directly into Condom because there’s no space so – uh oh!!

It’s 3.45pm, and I am not going to make it 14km in the next two odd hours, which rules out the campsite. I also can’t afford the gîtes between me and Condom, so on to the safe sex capital it is! Fuck. So much for a fucking slow day, hey? As I start my speedy walk out of town, I ring the three gîtes in my price range. The first two are full. Tired, ravenous, and praying for a miracle, I ring the third – and they have space. Hallelujah!! The omnipresent angel choir strikes up a chorus.

They’re a little out of town, so it’ll take a few minutes longer, and they want me there by 7.00pm. That means no stopping for shops, no food. I have packet soup I bought on Bean Day as an emergency ration, so I now just essentially have to pray they have a kettle I can use. Or a jug – though on the sliding scale of furious nation to peaceful whimsical nation, France was veering towards the former, so maybe they can keep the kettle.

But between me and my maybe-dinner, there are 14km and just about three hours. I can’t do that at my fastest, which means I will eventually have to run. God-fucking-speed, me! Fair warning, the scenic observations are going to diminish greatly in detail here, because at this point speed was my only focus. Even the Beach Boys are shut down, replaced with the loudest fast-paced songs I had downloaded (which, for the record, was very hard when I’d been in a Mumford and Sons mood for the last few weeks and had planned accordingly) blaring as I flew into the first town.

-Castel-sur-l’Auvignon-

I clear the first five and a half kilometres in just under an hour, half running up the hills, barely breathing. I hit the town and beeline for the toilets, disgusting and sweaty. Biggest problem with stopping when you’re going really fast? You can feel the sweat bead and roll and drip, and that already isn’t close to my top ten physical sensations, and isn’t helped by the fact that I’m stuck in a small poorly ventilated room that smells like piss.

I stumble back out, looking drowned, t-shirt wet. Air has never felt (or smelt) so good. I fill up water, again – run out already, god bless water bladders!! – swap my socks because I could probably wring these ones out if I tried, and try to apply more sunscreen, but I’m sweating so much it just pearls off. God that’s fucking gross. I wipe it all back off, give up, resign myself to the burns. And then the pack is back on and I’m gone less than five minutes after I arrive.

There’s no way I can keep up that pace, but it should be enough to push me ahead of time – but either way, the way to the town of Fromagère is a blind, hazy mush of sunlight and sunburn, heat and hunger. I refuse to stop, just keep going and going and going, even as my legs shake and my back aches. I even pass by a stunning lake stretching off into the valleys, surrounded by tables, and it would have been perfect if I had food.

Also, for funsies, I’ll tell you that the German guidebook does something very German, and alerts me that yes, the town is called Fromagère, but not to get my hopes up – no cheese is sold here. Thankyou, Hartmut, I appreciate the heads up. As I’m scrabbling up the last hill, my brain, unprompted, beams the line “call me Mr. Bananagrams, the way I’m madly scrambling” directly into my cerebral cortex. Stupidest fucking joke in the world, but it does the trick; and I laugh, push on to the top, clear the trees, realise I can see the Condom church (not nearly phallic enough, would be my main criticism). Thank you Bananagrams!

-Condom-

The last two kilometres are rough. I take back any time I’ve preciously called myself wrecked, because right now I am wrecked. I have to keep pausing, bending over my legs, trying to ease the ache because holy shit o u c h. Right at the final descent, there’s a lovely little sign that tells you where all the gîtes are – and thank god too, because I have been seriously stressing about how to find it for the past hour.

At the bottom of the hill, I pause momentarily, lean on the railings of the little sidewalk. I can’t be much late – get moving. I stagger across the few streets, head away from the centre, make my way there. The signs are a little confusing, in true French fashion, at one point pointing directly to a hedge and going ‘there! it’s there!‘. Which, of course, actually means ‘walk another 300m‘. Why, France, why?

But when I finish those 300m and turn left, it’s capital c Crazy. It’s,,, huge. Like, massive. And it’s being inundated with ballet dancers and couples with yoga mats. Enormously confused, and not totally convinced I’m in the right place, I walk in, to find reception shut. A quick check of the time reveals it’s 7.04pm, which definitely gets a little laugh. I love the French.

I call the number and the phone of the guy standing five metres from me starts ringing, and, upon making eye contact with him, my brain firmly decides to Not Hang Up, leaving it awkwardly ringing really loudly as he walks towards me. Smooth. He’s very friendly, shows me around, definitely a half-conversation he’s carrying though; my tongue can barely flick out a syllable. I need a shower and a mattress. Please.

He does show me one thing that brightens my mood – a fully stocked kitchen I can use, including leftover bread from the pilgrims dinner – I can eat tonight !! I get my own room for as much as you normally pay for a bunk – what is happening?? As it would turn out, the reason the place is so big and more like a complex is because it houses alcoholics struggling with addictions, and operates as a half-community centre as it does. It also might have been a prison – or the guy’s translation was crazy off. I would believe it though – the rooms are a bit cell-like.

Anyway, after a little bit more chit-chat in which I am desperately just wanting to run away to the showers (sorry Guy!) the friendly man leaves and I can breathe. I shower and – bad news. It’s perfect. It is the perfect shower. It’s hot, it has a handle, it has water pressure. I know I said if I found it I’d stay a week, but I can’t afford it here – I’ll have to shelve that statement for a campsite. I wash some clothes, hang them up to dry, make my bed (with actual sheets my god everyone should stay here – Ancien Carmel, if anyone is taking notes).

And then it’s soup time – except other people are eating, and it feels rude to interrupt, so I sit outside for a while, write and post some blogs – crazy, I know! – try not to fall further behind. Finally they clear out, and I go in, make my,,, potato cheese pasta soup, and I really don’t know if it was because of the mind-melting hunger or what but it’s the most delicious thing I’ve ever eaten and hey??? Maybe soup needs to join the rotation.

I do soon realise that I’m the only thing stopping host guy from packing up and going to bed though, so I, once again, almost burn the back of my throat trying to eat as quick as possible. I wash up, grab my things and vanish; get comfortable upstairs, and write well into the night – or the morning, if you were one of those kids at sleepovers that went ‘well actually-‘ (it’s me, I was that kid).

It’s 2.00am now (7.14pm, almost two weeks later), so it’s time for me to go – do me a solid and ignore the discrepancies between postings. Turns out, I’m not immune to burnout!! Who fucking knew?!

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Day 39 – September 28th

Lectoure to Condom

28.9km

~ 497.1km total

€35.53

~ €562.67 total

(861.8km combined)

(€1,091.90 combined)