pocket-full-of-seaglass

-Puoy-

I stayed far past check-out time, not that it was remotely enforced – no newcomers had arrived last night, and it had simply been too damn wet to contemplate outside-of-tent relocation, so I stayed put, listened to the rowdy breakfasts being prepared by the Gray Nomads from last night. Cracking eggs and seemingly battering every nearby metal surface with their cast iron pans, purely to create the loudest breakfast a human has thus far made. Beautiful. But, to their credit, they chose to do it at the timely hour of 6.00am, so at least that was thoughtful,,,,,,

It was alright – the sun had started to peek through the leaves anyway, so I watched it slip down the sides of my lovely red tent, felt it slowly slide over me. Waited till the camper doors slammed shut and the sound of eight synchronised leather shoes hitting the gravel began to fade, French babble dying off. Then I waited a little more, just because. But at some point, I rationed that I probably actually did have to move today, so that was unfortunate, but it wouldn’t have to be just yet,,, right,,,,,

If you couldn’t tell, if it wasn’t positively leeching off the page, I was super pumped and ready to go today!! But by 11.30am, I was up and packed and hitting the trail (soft fake floor resin type bike paths). On that note, nothing is funnier to me than people describing this as the bush – to their credit, it is literally exactly how I breached the topic to most people, but it feels totally disingenuous now. I might sleep in random fields, but this really is just town to town 90% of the time – I really don’t know why that didn’t click sooner!

Anyway, dozing out of the way for today (he says, not hinting at anything), I followed the bends of the path, and found a perfect camp spot overlooking the river, complete with bins and a breeze; what more could you want? So there’s another note for anyone looking for a free bed for the night – although you would trade a shower, and to be honest, the river looks rough, but hey, you’re an adult, make your own half-informed decisions <33

A few bikers (of the lanky lycra-clad European variant, rather than the cool leather gang kind – though my fingers were always crossed the population would shift!) passed me, whizzing by in a burst of sweaty air. Clearly the shower had gone to my head. There was someone far ahead of me, trudging along with a small cream satchel, and a pair far behind, decked in orange rain-gear. Not that strange, had it not been crystal clear today, but, trusting they knew something I didn’t, I carried on with a healthy dose of oh-fuck-is-there-rain-coming-?, which took me all the way down the path.

As we – my pack has become a person to me, is that concerning? – carried on, the trees slowly drew back their arms, shook chestnuts from their foliage and retreated to the sidelines, left us to the mercy of the sun. And, as if one could not be any more connected with nature, kindly left a nice hundred-metre gap between their boughs in order to appropriately bestow massive, bright blue E.LECLERC sign with the respect it so clearly deserved. Ahhh cities. Never change!

-Eauze-

E. Leclerc was my first sign of arriving in the town – my second was the giant (literal) sign that says ‘EAUZE – BIENVENUE’. What can I say, I’ve always been observant! And, could you believe this – I almost passed it up!! I had been munching on my last – at this point tragic and wilted – apple, and didn’t connect the dots until I saw people leaving with heaping carts. Ohhhh. A new bargain supermarket has been located!

Turns out, E. Leclerc is sort of like if you took Netto and made it bigger and worse. Not necessarily price wise – though they did charge me €6 for a pack of terrible cherry tomatoes, which should be criminalised under federal law – but purely in vibes. God, I could never be a reviewer – could you imagine? ‘Yeah, it’s great, but something is weeeiiirddd !!’ But anyway, I’m getting off topic. Back on topic. Food. Shopping. I’m food shopping. And for all its slightly off-putting aisle organisation choices, they do get one thing right. Bang on, even.

They have cheddar. Real cheddar. Lovely lovely Irish cheddar. I could’ve kissed the floor, thanked God. And I did – profusely. Not the floor though, head outta the gutter, c’mon. It was sweating the second it left the fridge, but I could not care less – I had cheese. Look, I might’ve been in the land literally famous for its cheeses, but I’m a man of simple taste. Cheddar cannot be beat, I’m sorry! Please forgive me, German relatives. And the rest of Europe. Probably extend a general apology to the world too, but that can wait. The rest of the shopping is a breeze – a few chocolate covered bikkies, a refill on my peach iced tea, salad mix, some bread. A lot of bread actually. Yeah I know, but it happened again. I left that store with almost a full kilo of pain strapped to my backpack – but in my defence, it was fresh and hot and delicious and cheap so you can all lovingly get screwed! Maybe you spoilt Europeans can get fresh hot bread like this every morning, but those of us who are geographically challenged have a little more trouble. 

I also decided the whole beans thing was stupid, but what was n o t stupid was buying a can of corn instead. Because that makes sense. Sure. I paid and left, tucked the can into my little hip pockets to give my hands something to rest on, and as I’m shamefully situating the aforementioned pain on my pack, who should come out but Kim and Park! We laugh, wave, have an obligatory ‘look who showed up!’ exchange, pack our bags side by side. Park shakes my hand, nods, says something I don’t catch, and then we’re heading our separate ways, with a promise to see each other soon. I love those guys 🙂 

Heading out from the parking lot, you take a sharp right and end up on one of the main streets of Eauze, eventually opening up to a sweet little courtyard flanked with bakeries, where hearty guitar strums blow through the air and cobbles clink underfoot. Here, in the shade of the unidentified-nut-trees, old French men lounge, eyes closed, in khaki shorts rolled up to show a positively scandalous volume of age-speckled skin, white chest hair bursting from their collars, and young women eat grapes with their hair tied back in red bandanas. A few bearded men drink cider under the overhangs, and the grumble of traffic sounds from two roads over. I am not above a bit of aching romanticism of city life, so I leant against a wall, tore off some of my French pain, pretended to be one of them. Beautiful country. Damn.

As I pushed on, a woman with her hair in a knotted braid came billowing out of the pink-walled bakery, grinned at me, her arms full of fresh hot pastries, and the children came sprinting out of the woodwork to greet her. Her laughter followed me, as did the pigeons pecking at the ground. No literally, that was going to be some pretentious ‘the kids are like birds’, but I’ve genuinely attracted them with all this fucking bread. Get them away from me. They won’t leave. Help!

Brace yourselves! I was having another slow day. Audience participation point up for grabs here, but do we think I’m finally at the point where I can stop saying that and instead be shocked when I don’t do this?? Because I think we’re heading that way. And no, yesterday didn’t count, because,,,,, I don’t know, it just didn’t. Love a good needless line in the sand. Anyway! You’re getting me all off topic again – the goal is to take as long as humanly possible to get to Nogaro, because I want to enjoy everything. We’re gaining ground, lovely lovely Reader, and we’ll be in this country another week and a half yet – not nearly enough time. Could you imagine telling me a year ago I’d be devo at the idea of leaving France? God, I mean just telling me I went willingly in the first place would surely shock some part of me, but this?? So the goal was to smell the proverbial roses. Fairly simply, considering today was a slow and beautiful meander down through the gentle hills 🙂 

My way out of Eauze was extraordinarily simple, just following those old brass (?) waymarkers the bigger towns had on their footpaths – this one the smallest so far, barely taking up the ball of my foot. I passed Avenue des Pyrenees, which prompted a wide smile that didn’t leave my face until I’d made it to the shade of the mini woodland just outside the city. Here, I ditched my pack and laid in the sun, watched butterflies flit through sunbeams, thought about the miracle of being alive, and ate my cheddar. Although, should specify, the cheddar did come before the ‘thank-god-I’m-alive’, so that might skew the perspective a bit.

It was a gorgeous day, perfect 28*, and I felt good. A woman and her teenage daughter came storming down the path fuming and I enjoyed the French shouts as they made their way downtown before settling in for my first doze of the day. The air was sweet and warm, the shade cool and breezy. Of course, not breezy enough, as when I opened my eyes ten minutes later I was greeted with approximately forty fucking winged bloodsuckers firmly slurping away at my exposed arms, which put a bit of a damper on things and left me making unintelligible noises of disgust as I swatted them away. Bastard mozzies!

So boosted with the threat of itching all night long, I gathered my things and set off again. Todays walk was one of those ones where it felt like France was just showing off. Every turn revealed a new oasis, winding down hills and curving around the backbones of the land, sloping fields and flowers hanging from trees, blending with the gentle waving grass. So many reminded me of Scotland, of the barely contained excitement before he arrived, the sickening nerves, the Pentlands hike, sitting happy in the trees on the hilltop, watching the sheep make their way down, the rolling waves of grass. The longing came back a little, made it’s home beneath my ribs, pressed against my sides. Three more months. Three more months!

I let it show off. France was truly just jaw-dropping – it blew my mind this was just how people lived. And I knew I was the same, and so was everyone, but man imagine waking up with a view of the mountains,,,, incredible <33 It was path-heavy too, not many roads, just trampled earth and flattened weeds, an occasional blooming dandelion. 

In all honesty, there’s not much to say; it was beautiful, and it was long, and I took my sweet time. I didn’t see a single person all day, so my desire to rush and beat someone was thoroughly flattened, which left just quiet reverence. I whiled away the hours thinking about December, brainstorming more ideas for gifts – what the fuck do you buy for parents that aren’t yours?? – and trying not to outwardly look as stupidly happy as I felt :)) I missed them !! Aaaargh !! How is anyone meant to be normal about visits I had n o idea,,,,

Eventually you pass through a smattering of towns with fu n names – Peyret, Penebert – and a small ‘fish-hut’ containing zero water or fish to speak of, which is a bit anticlimactic. And then suddenly, you find your feet on asphalt, the sun on your neck and the mountains to your right. They’re start and clear, lining up your incoming view of Manciet beautifully, the harsh red of traditional French houses hitting the pale green perfectly. 

-Manciet-

Spoilers, but Manciet is another one of those towns where you think you’ve arrived near on ten minutes before you actually arrive, but it gets a part for being absolutely hilarious. One of the first immediately visible structures is a large bulbous church (?) in the dip of the valley, and the second is a large red square. Interesting,,,, but as you near it, you’ll find it’s actually the start of a brand new chapter of the Podiensis! Because dear Reader, you’ve found yourself looking into a bull-ring. For chasers, fighters, watchers and gamblers alike – nothing brings a nation together like big angry animals! 

This particular bull-ring boasts an exceptionally helpful plaque detailing the general history of bull-fighting in this area, along with the guy who coined it, who then died – bet you can’t guess how! It also assures me this will not be the last time I experience this spectacle, which to be honest feels like a bit of a threat, given that the ring is empty at this time, but a good laugh nonetheless. Sticking straight till you hit the main road then forking left will deposit you outside the incredibly well-maintained public toilets, which are an absolute Godsend, and while inside, do me a favour and admire the bull-related decor <33 My favourite was the colour scheme – the toilets matched the ring!

From here, I have a lightbulb moment. Not in the toilet exactly, but I guess it it was just so cool it got my brain working. Also, calling it a lightbulb moment feels like too much credit, so in this scenario imagine its one of those spare lightbulbs you’ve got stashed in a drawer somewhere that’s super dull and basically useless but if every single other lightbulb in your house went out at least you’d have this one. That’s the one that went off. I’ve talked too much.

Anyway! Point is, my dimly flickering lightbulb goes off when I check the time and realise it is roughly 3.38pm, and I have perhaps chilled out a little too hard and now did not really stand much of a chance to find somewhere to sleep before the sun came down. Nogaro was another 10km out, and the light was already dwindling in the valley. Stressed was a strong term,, but I was definitely getting nervy – so naturally, I stopped for a chocolate bikke and an air of my feet by the side of the church to gather my resolve. Ten k’s in two hours was definitely rough, but I could manage it – it was going to be an outside night anyway, so I could push it another hour if I needed, so I let myself breathe. 

After twenty minutes, I got back up – but not after witnessing two well-off French men get into a fight over who was going to drive their fancy car which, apart from being incredibly stupid, was objectively the funniest thing I’d seen all day. Propelled by the laughs from that, I followed the curve of Manciet’s main street down, treading cobble and gutter-stones, past a gorgeous little rest stop fully covered in leaves from the trees that surrounded them, linking together over the ropes tied between trunks. Unfortunately though, the tables were square – not ideal for sleeping on. But still, note to others!

Out of Manciet, you’re treated to quite a beautiful stretch – pass the river (it smells ro u gh this is your warning!), over the mini bridge, and turn right, you’ll end up on a road that winds softly past farmland and a large house with a backyard f u  l l of ducks all enjoying old pond water and quacking at you in greeting. Past this, and you turn left, climbing the ridgelines of this flat little area, weaving between vineyards and houses. Here, if you feel like re-creating the experience, you will turn on I Don’t Feel Like Dancing by the Scissor Sisters, on full volume, on repeat, and will sing it loud as can be (when you’re in the vineyards section, not the house section, have some decency!) and dance v e r y poorly. It’ll make the time vanish I swear.

Another thing that will make the time vanish is when you pause for a Kinder chocolate – it’s important, okay? – and to check your map, and you’ll see something you have not seen in q u i t e a while. Hello, Etang! It’s a beautiful little blue spot on the map, barely 500m off course – and as you pull out your towel to airdry before you reach it, you’ll glance up to see another sign solidifying it – 1.5km to go until you reach the Etang turnoff 🙂 Immediately deciding swimming was more important than sleep, I mentally change course. Halfway up the road, kids in swimmers come tearing down, wet and gross and screaming with delight. God I loved kids.

I followed their wet little footprints in reverse, all the way up the hill, where I’m greeted with the turnoff. I take it, and it leads me to a beautiful, perfect,,,,,,, ditch ???? Etang is clearly used a little more freely in this part of France, but the children l o v e it. Choosing to not douse myself in muck when I have no idea when my next shower will be, I regretfully turn around, slink back the way I came, and head for Nogaro.

Helpfully, by the time the Etang dejection hits, I’m already quite close to Nogaro. The lead-up to this town, I have to say, is potentially one of my favourites so far. You head through a small dip in the landscape, follow the quiet, thick trees, and emerge at Eglise de l’Hopital, an old, almost barren church. But, it is still a church, and by law that means it’s a little bit beautiful, so I creak open the iron gates and head inside. 

First thing of note is that it’s huge, and it smells like I shouldn’t be in there. The doors ar ethic wood, the pulpits and pews covered in thick dust, air unmoving. Creepy. Probably less creepy in the not-near-dark, but regardless. It has a cemetery attached, which is far mor interesting, but it seems that most of these people have been forgotten. No flowers messy the tops, no wreaths or letters or vases or anything at all. Relics, laying beneath their stones. There’s a small indent in the wall of the church adjoining the cemetery where people leave offerings, and, like most places alongside this trek, it’s ve ry pilgrim. 

A small logbook tells stories of pilgrims past, witty remarks and love hearts, graffiti and arrows to other people’s talking points. It was an interesting idea, to bother to reply to someone you knew you would never see, much less respond. An upturned Camino shell cradling remnants of a self-made candle, a pinecone missing three spikes, an eleven Euro jesus statue still shrouded in plastic w. Sticker intact, collecting dust. Paper cranes, a little better folded, with a simple note tacked to the bottom of their hanging tails ; merci. Scribbles and scrawls, notes to lovers and children. A father and his daughter poke their tongues out at me from 2008, and pictures of this church across the years bundle up behind small stones and nuts, topped with a cross made of striped paper straws.

You’ll stay a little too long, try to read it all, but eventually the light dims and you remember you’ve yet to reach bed for the night, so you’ll back away ruefully, smile at the headstones. Fill your water up outside, ice cold and perfect, then walk out from the woods onto gravel road, where you’ll climb the hill, stand atop it and look down, across the valley, to where the city lies creeping up the opposite hill. The church commands the skyline, naturally, and the other buildings huddle around it for warmth; cars weaving between, thick like honey, white and red tail-lights dripping down the mountain. 

You head down through vineyard after vineyard, thick bunches of red and green grapes bowing heavy towards the ground as the sun vanishes over the opposing side of the valley, air sweet with fermented fruit. Alongside the grapes, someone has created an art installation of pilgrims who have walked this previously, large black and white pictures protecting you from the non-existent sun. Young and old, men and women, everyone smiles, wrinkles and sunspots and so much beauty. One woman laughs, her head tilted back, her hand reaching out for you, and if you follow it you’ll find yourself looking at the Greenwich Meridian, which is quite cool 🙂 You’ll soon meet the path that meets the road that meets Nogaro, and though there’s benches, I urge you to resist – cars are numerous here, and idle right beside them. 

-Nogaro-

The road into Nogaro crosses the river Midour, which, if you’re lucky, will contain water. But today, France remains in drought, the grass dry and brittle beneath our feet, and the river runs dry. So I wander on, over bridges and crossroads, eventually reaching the hub. Here, I find Orange Shirt Guy from the Ferme, and I’m so relieved to see a regular that I wave, smile. Unfortunately, I don’t process before doing that, so I don’t grasp that he’s in clean, nice clothes drinking with who I can only imagine are actual friends of his, so he just kind of winces and nods, which,,, ouch?? I thought we had something, Orange Shirt Guy </3

No stress though, he’s soon forgotten when I round the corner and get to experience my daily dose of people-watching. The streets of Nogaro have yet another fun bunting – this one small copies of childrens’ shirts, marked with small colourful lights. Couples wander down the darkening streets, and the hubbub and clatter of restaurants echo through the twisting bricks, soft yellow light streaking through the wooden windows. I follow the spire, and it gives me a bench behind the church, in plain view of every other house and car passing, so I head to the other side of the church and take a right, head up the slope as headlights pass me by, officially the last of the light I’d be getting tonight. Someone is either brave, stupid or knows the owners and has set up camp in someone else’s backyard, but I shift left past the cemetery, filling up water again as I do.

I’m sure there’s a park somewhere here, there has to be,,, and eventually, I find it. A sharp right into the trees, and you’ll meet a small gravel carpark with just one car in it, an old camper. A middle-aged pair and their dog are playing in the park, just by the large pond, throwing glow-in-the-dark dog toys out for their affectionately horrible little rat dogs to catch. A sigh of relief – there’s a bench. Dark green and metal, so definitely makes for an interesting night, but I have a bed. Thank g o d. 

I slip out of my damp hiking shirt and into my lovely warm sleeping shirt, crowd myself in layers. It’s starting to get colder now, not unmanageably, but for s u r e noticeably, and I’d rather not enter cryosleep any sooner than I need to yknow :)? I enjoy some carrot rapees and salad, finish off some more of the Lerclerc bread from earlier today – was that really still today?? – and settle in for the night at a breezy 8.00pm. Well, okay, settle in is a strong word – I lay down in my sleeping bag. Headlight stays on, and my fingers tap away. The dog people leave soon after, and a little after that the stars come out and my g o d do they come out strong. I think they’re the brightest they’ve been since I left and it is n o t close. The moon is full, lights up the park just as well as the sun could have, a world in grayscale, stars shimmering in sheets of light. It’s stunning, my god. 

My only other companions are two teenage boys on bikes, who slowly wheel out towards me, clock the light and prompt turn tail and screech away. They return ten minutes later, and ten minutes after that, keep coming to check if I’m still there, which freaks me out until I realise why. I can hear them grumbling in French until I turn my light off, and then, as I’m hidden by a trees shadow, they assume they’re alone and start wh o o p i n g.

They ride up, down, around, lit only by their red lights and dim headlights, dodging tree roots and branches, screaming with laughter and shoving each other over, racing racing racing. I fall asleep to the sound of them weaving through the forests, young boys and their rebellion. Sweet 🙂

---

Day 41 – September 30th

Puoy to Nogaro

21.7km

~ 549.3 total

€16.72

~ €619.97 total

(914.0km combined)

(€1,149.20 combined)