pocket-full-of-seaglass

-Condom-

I was too excited to sleep last night – not entirely sure why. It’s something about actual beds; whenever I had them I wanted to spend as long as possible being on them, to the point where sleeping felt like a weird thing to do, because then bed would be over. Same rules as always; I was still a night owl, despite my attempts to brute force the opposite. So for probably an hour, I’d just been daydreaming about nothing and everything, and now, three hours later, it was breakfast time. Ohhh boy.

Now, breakfast was a thing you had to pay for – or believe me, I wouldn’t have – which means this morning, at a bright 6.50am, I was going to try my hardest to eat these alcoholics out of house and home (okay even I admit maybe that one went a bit too far). I’m the third to arrive; the Guy is setting down a pitcher of milk as I do, and this is already the best breakfast so far. My two companions are a couple I’ve never seen before, how exciting!

The woman introduces herself as Kim, travelling with her husband Park, both from South Korea, both on their fifth camino, both joking about moving here to save on the airfare. Kim speaks English, and translates for Park, who speaks some French and translates for her. I love them instantly.

[AN : Just a little aside for the nicknames vs. using people’s actual names – there’s a few things. One is that I wouldn’t want to just put their names and nationalities (and sometimes stories) on the internet forever without permission, it feels a little creepy, but also even when I do know their names, most I don’t know well enough to ask to write about, if that makes sense? Like I know Black Backpack Guy’s name because I’ve heard it; I’ve also never had a conversation with the guy – walking up and being like ‘hello is it chill if I write about you, Person I’ve Never Spoke To In My Life Before?‘ would be a tad overwhelming, I’d think. Kim and Park (and Fred) are the exceptions to the nicknames because they were all super open, and I think they’re filming their journey?? Plus they’re giving everyone they meet stickers with their names on them, so I’m assuming they’d be totally fine with it.]

In incredibly exciting news; we have almost the exact same plan. Walk from here to Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port, then diverge from the Frances and walk the Norte, then detour into the Primitivo and to Finisterra :] The only difference is in our getting-to-Irun – they’ll be taking the Via Neve Bidoassa, and I’ll be taking the GR10, which means we’ll seperate by more than a few days – but I walk a little faster than they do, so we joke that maybe we’ll see each other on the Norte/in Santiago. And I’m really hoping we do. They’re very fun to talk to, and it’s nice.

It’s also great at distracting from how grim French breakfasts are. My German side couldn’t take it; where was the food?? The cheese, the veggies?? The meat?? Dipping thin slices of bread into (HEAPED) hot chocolate was great, but probably the least filling thing in the world, sandwiched between sawdust and a i r. Kim and Park leave to start walking a few minutes later, just in time to pass a sticker to the last guy to show up before I leave, one with an orange shirt. We don’t have a common language, so I just down a few little tubs of fruit yoghurt and get on my way. After drinking what is probably the majority of a litre of milk, naturally.

My plan was to leave by 8.00am, and I start off strong with my packing, but then get immensely distracted calling my dad, talking and laughing while I get ready. Fantastic way to start the day, highly recommend it. On a sidenote, do you know how fucking annoying it is to have a really cool dad?? It’s awful. All the older guys making jokes when they find out you’re eighteen, always some ‘hahah aw mate, get away from the folks right?’, and the back of my mind is all high pitched like ‘um actually, my dad is super cool and I love him’. Seriously, having cool parents is the worst thing that’s ever happened to teenage me. Being angsty and all ‘ugh I hate my dad’ was an effort at thirteen, I’ll tell you that much.

Anyway, as we’re talking, he suggests that ‘Teenage Dirtbag’ is sort of fitting the mood for me lately, and I swear to god every part of my brain went silent. Downloaded it immediately. How could I not realise I needed a bit of shitty teenage angst? Oh this is perfect. And on the complete opposite end of the musical spectrum, a new Dope Lemon album. Sweet!

At this point, I’m kicked out by the guy a full hour before I have to leave the room, which is a little lame, so I hang up, awaiting updates on the Fijian ferry that is very much stuck in the harbour with him onboard whenever I next get reception. I’m not that late to my original plan, and by 8.35am, I’m following a rough screenshot I took of Google Maps to try and find the Intermache.

I’m clearly struggling, because a lovely man comes up and asks; ‘ça va?’, as in ‘you good?’, but my mangled attempts at French are not working today. Neither is my brain, clearly, because then he asks if I speak English, and I’m so used to being the one asking that I instinctively mimic the opposite end, and say, in a bad French accent, “a little bit”. What?!?!?!

He waves me off, apologises, heads away. I head away too, immensely confused on why that ever left my mouth. A little bit ??? What the fuck ???

Eventually the screenshot comes in handy, and I find it. It’s a big one too, which is exciting, because now I can replace my headphones! The shitty ones lasted almost two weeks of ten hours a day music, so I’ll let them die in peace. I get Apple ones that will 100% hurt my ears and give me headaches, but beggars can’t be choosers! Allegedly,,,

I listen to Dope Lemon, try to embody the whole chill-no-problems-calm vibe, drop a few apples, fail miserably. But I get the essentials without stress! Tuna salad, bread, pesto, tomatoes. Shopping was so much easier when you just eat the same two things on loop – definitely recommend. I’m on my way properly by 9.25am, Teenage Dirtbag absolutely blaring, smiling all the way down. Or up, I guess. Navigation was not my strong suit.

The way out of Condom almost gets me lost, but I find it again (what a legend), and in the process wander past a guy who definitely was actually lost (whoops). Just past the absolutely Massive cathedral is a little statue thing of the Three Musketeers who, to be completely honest, I forgot were real people. Also near the cathedral is an adorable little bookshop, where I cave and buy a cute little card. Euros don’t count when it’s for silly little art pieces okay!!

After the cathedral you follow a winding little street down to the river, which you’ll cross and follow the shade of the trees to a beautiful little park which would have been a perfect spot to sleep had I not been so gross yesterday. And then it’s back to asphalt. It takes forever to escape the clutches of the city; the outskirts try to trap you, wrap clunky fingers of residential complexes and perfect lawns around you.

But it’s not your fate to stay, not today. Today you’re back on hot roads with no-one on them, bar you. Our first stop is a church about ten k’s out from here – until then, you’ll tread mostly the same road for an hour, sweating bullets under the morning sun. After a time, you’ll start to see houses, and a significant volume of neon colours, heading directly your way. It’s a massive group, somewhere around forty people, all making their way to the shade of some trees in a field nearby. You swap a bit of international charades with the leaders, convey the general ‘holy fuck it’s hot’ sentiment.

They ask where you’re from, and upon hearing Australie, gasp and point down, say,

“Eet is a place worze zan hell!”

Very true, Frenchman, but at least it isn’t France. Pros and cons!

The gaggle starts to move up, heading through the field towards a town on the ridgeline, camino shells clinking. Where are they going?? There aren’t any markers, so I keep going, but a few hundred metres later the second-guessing gets to me, and I backtrack. Nope, definitely no markers – so what?? According to the book, there’s a town about a kilometre off-course called Larrissingle, so I guess that must be that??

The path just never ends, but finally you enter a little shaded tunnel of trees that spits you out onto a busy road; the actual turn-off to Larrissingle, marked by a list of the towns attractions, which seem to consist almost entirely of medieval ramparts and creperies. Which means (1) you are not as far ahead as you thought you were, and (2) that massive group is so immensely lost. You decline the two kilometre detour into town and back, opting instead to cross the road and immediately re-enter the shade, going down, down, down, all the way to a tepid little pond, complete with floating fish. Poor things.

It really starts to stretch here, but eventually you reach Pont D’Artigues, an old bridge the guidebook dedicates a full page to. This book is hilarious, for the record; immensely German. Distances? Aahhh who cares, chuck any old number in. The construction of the houses has changed over the past century ?? Let’s have a lengthy discussion. I loved it.

After the bridge, it’s back to some good old fashioned asphalt, and I pass a Maroon Woman and a Green Guy as the path forks to the left and we begin to climb. It’s objectively not that intense, compared to prior, but it’s a hot fucking day, and we all pause at the top for a breather. Well deserved, I’d say! But I’m not stopping till I hit that church, so we walk on.

Turns out, probably not the best idea; directly after that patch of shade is a long stretch of burning sun, with no shade, uphill. Terrible combination, not helped by the fact that for the first time in my entire camino experience, the waymarkers are shit. Seriously, it’s terrible – I’ve only seen three markers today, and only so much of that can be pinned down to me missing some. Everyone I pass is consulting phones and guidebooks (or walking the wrong way), and at most intersections it seems to be a ‘follow the footsteps in front of you and pray that person knew what they were doing‘ sort of scenario.

Helpfully, at the next split of the path, a group of three Brits had not known what they were doing, and had taken the wrong turn, therefore saving me from the exact same decision. The three of them move up ahead, speedy with their daypacks. Today was one of the days where I was definitely regretting such a heavy pack – but oh well! I catch up with them a few hundred metres later, resting in the shade talking with two others about the terrible markers. And the two look familiar – Kim and Park!!

I’m genuinely overjoyed to see them, they’re so sweet. I wave as I pass, and they both wave back :] As I walk away, I remember the sticker they gave me, the one crumpled in my pocket, and I pull it out there and then, stick it firmly in the back of my credential. Maybe that’ll be the real souvenir – all the weird stamps. I follow the markings (one green arrow spray painted onto the road) into the distance, panting under the unrelenting heat.

There’s still no shade, and still. No. Church. How?? It’s been so long, surely it’s close,,, the sign for Routgès is right there so where is the church??

The green leads away from Routgès, and so I’m on the verge of giving up on a rest completely, when I see a slightly odd looking cluster of trees on the next slope – mmm shade. I go to investigate and pass a trampled sign in the dust – Eglise Routgès. Boom boom boom we’re here!!

-Routgès-

Shade has never felt so cool, and I’m laying down with my shoes off almost instantly. I’m alone, so I can truly relax, and the area before the church is beautiful, with thick, soft green grass and some wild tulips blowing in the breeze. Other (tiny) flowers dot your surroundings, little specks of white and pink and purple, and the wind rustles through the corn fields that surround you, play a little tune.

Soon enough, though, said tune is interrupted by the furious gurgling of my stomach. Yeah yeah, I get it, chill out. Sadly, the charm of tuna salad has worn out; it is a mammoth effort to finish it today. Oh how the mighty have fallen! But hey, saves me an extra €3.50 I can spend on pesto <33 I’m joined by Green Guy and Maroon Woman, who sit nearby, and a guy in Neon Green who is very clearly a biker starts to slink around, waves awkwardly, and backs away. I know the move so well, I feel like I’m watching myself.

Eventually I go to fill up water, pass a younger woman sleeping in the shade – which also feels so familiar it makes me smile – and find Bike Guy sitting alone on the steps outside, eating corn from the can. He smiles, nods, and I say hello, smiling. He grins back, clearly appreciating the gesture, and I mime coming inside to sit in the shade, but he declines, which I was fully expecting because he Is Me, so I just head back in.

A quick flick through the book helps me realise I grossly overestimated the accomodation situation; the ‘camping’ symbol I was going to try to get to is actually just a gîte that’s already shut for the year. Okayyy. Anything else?? Nope – not until Eauze, a good twenty three kilometres from here. Mmm it’s a stretch, but I can make it – if I leave Right Now and keep up the same pace for the next six and a half hours!!

Look, we’ll figure it out. I’ve stayed forty-five minutes, which is long enough (in theory), so I try to shake off the overwhelming urge to nap, get back up and at em !! I wave goodbye to Bike Guy as I leave, and he grins at me, wide and (literally) corny. He’s so funny I love him <33 What I do not love, however, it the fact that I can actively feel my skin frying.

It’s scorching, and I do n o t say that lightly. Immensely glad I reapplied sunscreen before I left, I continue on into the endless head. Truly feels like a summer day, though perhaps that isn’t great, because this is Europe and autumn. Yay, climate change!! But still, it takes me back to sitting outside school waiting for the bus, getting sunburnt through my jeans. Maybe not one of the main things I miss, but it’s a fun memory in hindsight. Breezy warm hits blaring, ready to get home and head to the beach – or straight to bed, depending on the day!

You head through a mini-intersection that is, at midday, completely dead. How surprising! I’m just following the backpack of the pilgrim in front of me, who is being accompanied (?) by someone else, someone older, sans backpack but with a fancy film camera and I’m s o intrigued – what are they filming? Is she the subject?? Did they just meet today?? What are their stories??

Not that I verbalise any of it, or take the opportunity to start a conversation – you’re getting way ahead of yourself, reader. Nah, I just sort of slink past them like a sad little creature and go on ahead. But, luckily for me, they stop anyway and I can zoom on into the shadows in peace, paused only momentarily by the big construction,,, digger (I only know the playing-with-children names for things, sorry!),, thing – y’know the one, Big Scoopy Truck with the Scoopy Arm and big flat wheels that are more like tracks. That thing! – which is currently scooping dirt out of the corners of the road, clearing a route for rain that never comes.

About halfway down the road, you’ll turn left down a grass hill, and follow that for ten minutes or so, and right as you start to think ‘man today just never ends, where the hell is Montréal-‘ BOOM there it is !!

-Montréal-du-Gers-

Underneath Montréal-du-Gers’ welcome sign, someone has scribbled ‘welcome to Canada!‘, which is stupid but prompts a tired snort regardless. The sign also features a variety of flower-related imagery, which are beautiful but sorely missing from real life.

I don’t know what it is about today, but the stretches are plentiful – even just the road into town is straight, and long, and feels like an eternity. I think maybe it might have something to do with my insistence on walking ‘far’ every day, and burning myself out, but don’t quote me on that. When I hit the centre, there’s shade and water and all I want to do is rest but there’s just no time!

I make a little promise to myself to slow down in the next few days and not force myself to do so much, and make my way out of town, straight by the old church and behind the main street. I make it about fifty metres before all desire to continue absolutely vanishes; no surprise there, I’m at just around 19km, and it’s 2.00pm – all I want is water and sleep.

I discover a small loophole though; if I sit on a bench without taking my pack off, my stubborn side doesn’t count it as a break, but my brain does. Perfect middle ground. Y’know what else helps? Haribo. Haribo helps. This Camino is being powered solely by Haribo and dreams, which is just about how it should be I think, sugar fuelling your non-existent desire to move. I’m choosing to not believe other blogs I’ve read, where they get better as they go along; screw that! You get slower and more tired, and your reliance on sweets triples (at least I hope so!).

I stand up to leave at the exact moment a girl with a yellow backpack passes me and she jumps, and I feel immensely creepy and apologise, but she just turns and smiles and wishes me ‘Bon Chemin!’ and everything feels right in the world :] I (non-weirdly) follow her down, all too conscious that I myself could very well be mistaken for the Scary Man to others now – the Terrible Beard definitely didn’t help me any!

What does help is that she’s incredibly fast, and by the time I round the next corner about a second after she does she’s out of my line of vision. What is in my line of vision, though, is a guy looking so insanely zen underneath a little covered picnic table I start feeling sleepy. He’s definitely getting set up to spend the night, which is a bit brave considering it’s only 2.45pm, but hey, good for him. If anything, I’m jealous!

In writing these – especially when I’m behind – I’ll sometimes write down really brief summaries of my surroundings to help jog my memory when I loop back around to actually writing out the days happenings, and my sole dot point for this section is ‘forest forest forest, hill hill hill, endless fucking dirt paths next to roads next to vineyards, why do the French like their wine so much, kill me‘, which is very funny in its moodiness so I’m including it <33

The way to Lamothe is rough when you’re exhausted already – the last few kilometres actually feel like decades. I have lived entire lives between the last two towns. I’ve grown old and married and had children and bathed them in campsite sinks under fireworks and I’ve walked a thousand caminos and I’ve travelled the world and i’ve Fixed Everything and ocean acidification has been entirely reversed because I’ve had so much time to solve the problem and s t i l l I am not at Lamothe.

I pass the time by cheerily imagining how I would break the news to different people if I got a terminal illness. Not that I have one – but y’know, just in case. I’ve realised I think maybe no-one but me would appreciate a jokey reveal, and I’d probably have to be quite serious about it, which is a bit horrific. More mental conversations must be had to figure out the script, so you’ll have to wait on that front, Reader! And then I look up and see that weird tower on the hill :]

-Lamothe-

Almost brings a tear to my eye,,, no seriously, I’m so exhausted I could just as well collapse and cry. And then a bright yellow bastard sign tells me it’s another kilometre and then I just feel Violent. Scenic route be damned. You turn left at an intersection and onto a bike path that will soon become your mortal enemy, which you’ll follow along till a random little path uphill beckons with a GR blaze.

You’ll arrive on the first doorsteps of Lamothe a panting, gross mess, and promptly pass Orange Shirt Guy from this morning, who is peacefully airing his laundry, the prick. Waving in mental apology for my Grouch, he raises a hand in recognition as I pass, heading right to the church. Bike Guy is sleeping in the shade and I accidentally wake him up as I pass, but in the face of my apology he just smiles and says, “hello again!”, and I breathe out a “yeshelloonesecond” and beeline for the bathroom.

It’s,, rustic, shall we say, with just a hole cut from a wooden board laid over a sizeable hole in the ground, but it’s there and it’s got a lockeable door, so I can’t complain. And listen, I know this sounds weird but there was something in that fucking place that smelt so familiar, like I don’t know if I’m going insane or what but it was some weird fake citrus smell that reminded me of Something I used to know. It’s impossible to pin down, but it’s delicious – which is, broadly speaking, not the word you want to come to mind when smelling anything in a public bathroom.

Anyway, upon exiting and checking the time, I’ve realised I’ve made enough time over the past nine odd kilometres to justify a fifteen minute sit-down – and thank god I have. My feet are aching, yelling out to be put in the cold sand that is conveniently and weirdly everywhere around this church, and who am I to argue? After a brief rest and some water though, sadly I must press on. While I’m now late enough to not quite remember the finer points of why I was in such a rush, I remember the feeling well enough to tell you it most definitely was there. Horrible.

As I tugged the evil shoes back on, a man in a white van pulls up – not to worry, it’s of the camping variety (which is such a bizarre misnomer can we talk about that? What the fuck is remotely ‘camping’ about driving your house somewhere and then sleeping,,,, in your house?) – and starts talking to my lovely bicycle friend like he’s known him his whole life, in an aurally pleasing yet eclectic range of languages with seemingly no room to breathe or maintain one of them long enough to get out a full sentence without switching.

As I walk past the two, Bike Guy points at the sun – or at least, the precious little that’s left of it – then raises his eyebrows?

“You have sleeping place tonight?”

“Camping!” I respond, then, on second-thought, “If I can get there!”

Evidently, I’ve finally found a bit of humour that bridges the gap, because they both love it.

“Good luck,” says White Van Man, “you’ll need it!”

Trying to ward off the vaguely ominous nature of that last – potential – attempt at an uplifting contribution to the conversation, I head back down the slope to rejoin the bike path I left twenty minutes ago.

And now, strap yourselves in, because this is, by a long shot, the most boring fucking stretch of walking I’ve done,,,, total. I’m almost certain it wouldn’t have ben close to as bad had I not been at what is more or less my comfortable limit for the day (around 24km) already, and if the light hadn’t been starting to fade, but as it was, I was having a right old time.

Between Lamothe and Eauze, there’s Nothing but the bike path. And when you are lame and exhausted and stressed, six kilometres really starts to feel like twenty, especially when it’s all on the same tarmac and you don’t even get the bike part of the bike path – ie. no distractions. I’m all for taking stock of your surroundings, just not when they don’t change noticeably for six straight kilometres.

I’ll try to dial back the complaining, but in my defence, this is the documented travels of a mentally ill teenager who has excessive cynical grouchiness as one of his Actual biggest problems to fix, and I’ve not exactly been tucking that one under the rug, so honestly, are you even that surprised? Incessant optimists are arguably more irritating than those immoveable constantly-sad people; you have to find the balance. For me that means generally everything is incredible and even when it’s not, I’m lucky to experience it, but sometimes it sucks and I need to complain to get it out of my system. And every few weeks the world will end for an afternoon – but who’s counting?

Speaking of which, I’ve had more James Acaster bits stuck in my head; namely, the ‘ohhh you just die on your arse, don’t you?‘ segment.

“You just die – two, three times a week sometimes. Remember that time you died every day for a month?? Remember that??”

God I love James Acaster. If there is anything anyone gains from reading any single excerpt of this blog, I hope it is the knowledge that James Acaster exists – I promise, your world will be better of knowing it. Unless you’re American – I’m not sure the awkward British humour quite translates as well into American humour as it does Australian.

Looking like a little bit of a lunatic, mumbling vague bits and loops to myself, I made my way through the woody tunnel – which soon prompts the question; if a man falls in a forest, and no-one is around to hear it, does he make a sound? And the answer to that question is an emphatic yes in the form of a “oh you FUCKER!” ; you’re welcome, philosophers.

Anyway, after the billionth fucking crossing that leads back to the bike path – all roads lead to Rome style – looking all the while for the markers my guidebook mentions – where the fuck is the backstein brucke Hartmut Engel? – I soon see God in the form of a small, handwritten note tacked to the back of a stop sign, with a small arrow that points to the right (away from the bike path, if such a thing is even possible), one that gloriously spells out ‘camping here’. Haaaalelujah haalelujah !! Feet ready to murder me and spine ready to join, I stumble off the bike path, follow a very different set of arrows, and round the final corner to see a big old chain across my path and red warning tape seemingly being used as free decoration.

-Puoy-

Dear Reader, I am not ashamed to say I was double checking for security cameras. It had been a long day, and I’m sure they could stomach one tiny intrusion just this once,,,, but no, alas, there was a camera. Or, at least, something roughly camera sized. It might have been a bird – I’ll be real, I was a little delirious at this point. After backtracking to the arrows, then going back, then backtracking a g a i n just in case I’d missed anything, I realised I was a little doomed. I couldn’t afford the places in Eauze, and even if I could, the chance of me making it the last few kilometres were slim to none. I’d take another night sans-shower, apologies to all who encountered me in the morning!

I made one last effort to make it work; called the number again. I’d tried a few times throughout the day, but not once had my dial tones amounted to anything more; but this time, it seems, they would. They had space, and it was only 7.00pm – why was I calling again? They were open late, y’know. Riiight, I responded, looking at the chain. Sure. I hung up when the line started to go weird, as it was wont to do, and made my way in, through an exceptionally cool and smooth jump of the fence (inching my way around very slowly so my legs didn’t give out on me).

It took me longer than expected to actually reach the reception area, which turned out to just be their Actual House tacked onto the restaurant, but the guy was super lovely and stamped my credential too, which was a first for a campground! I checked in and we have a new benchmark for the cheapest campsite – €6.00 flat! Immensely happy with that, I immediately purchased a cold can of Coke (today seemed a good a day as any to get over my new fear of canned Coke) to wash down the mistakes of the day, and in the process completely levelled the price once more. Perfect!

There isn’t much to tell of the rest of the night, just setting up and sleeping, all the usual campsite stuff, bar three things, which – release that bated breath – I’ll tell you now.

(1.) My closest pitch-neighbours were roughly 50m away, but I could hear every scrap of their conversation, mostly because it was entirely centred on the footy, which, in Australia and France alike, leaves little room for quiet, apparently. They were a group of six Gray Nomads, each in a pair, each pair with their own van, who parked in a triangle and ate together. Exceptionally cute, if not a little soul-destroying come 2.00am.

(2.) When I retreated to the shower block to indulge myself in a little well-deserved soaking, I found the water to be ice cold, and not in any danger of defrosting any time soon. Just about ready to cry, I tried every shower in the block – nada. Pure desperation urged me on to the weird block closer to the house, and voila ! Water so hot I had to turn it down – a first for potentially all of France. So, if anyone else happens to turn off here, ignore the second one, it hates you. Or maybe it just hates me, which would be very hurtful, and if true, you should not tell me.

(3.) Warm and comfortable, I made my way back across the two small river crossings needed to reach my tent, and in the process managed to kick a small chuck of metal jutting out with the force of a thousand suns – thankfully I was walking with my toes up out of habit, so my actual foot bore the brunt – sending a massive CLANG through the bridge which tells me, had there been any feeling left in them, my feet would be in agony right now. As it were, I was fine. Until I almost stepped on a very different kind of potential pain; a fucking yabbie. What??? I didn’t know they were here – which I meant both geographically and literally. He was big and shiny blue-black, and exceptionally pretty.

So we meet again in retrospect! Hello again! I know this is always great to hear, but I’ve got a capital p Plan moving forward, which should have me caught up by early November at the latest, so we’ll see how well that holds up at all! Enjoy your yabbies – Americans call them c r a w f i s h, which I find immensely funny – and have a lovely night <33

---

Day 40 – September 29th

Condom to Puoy

30.5km

~ 527.6km total

€40.58

~ €603.25

(892.3km combined)

(€1,133.42 combined)