Pilgrimage Pt.14.
Late last night I changed my mind. If I can't just about walk straight on again today weather permitting I'll see how the bones and the damp feels Friday before deciding to walk to Conques or use a hackney. I've still got all of the emergency sterling fund that mother gave me without me asking; haven't had chance to exchange it.
The Way of St James recommends Hospitalité Saint-Jacques: and I'm going to relax in Estaing, 320m: without a bleeding nose coming down from 1400m and snaking over many more petit Marilyns. So far all I've had for petit dejourner are a dozen Agen Prunes. I was helped on my way to my donativo so popped back for le cafe au femme et créme!
Everyone else seems to be going forward to Golinhac, but they didn't go over the hill between Espalion and Estaing. I can't manage another afternoon of being wetness. My feet are getting trenchfoot from everyday's rains. It is another seventeen kilometres, up hill a bit, in convincing rains. I have resisted another option: buying a poncho. The weather is meant to break by Saturday so back on the Way to Figeac.
Stopped for a Plat du Jour and enjoyed a little Swiss voice. Earlier I heard an English voice. I couldn't quite believe my ears. I thought I began understanding French as natural! Dale Collingham from Woodthorpe Notts: a retiree teacher(86). Full of stories of injuries. He broke his ankle recently. French doctors amazing he said. Even when they don't understand any English. My cancer shuddered for time to be called: squeemish are my gonads thank in you older English person, enjoying le café au lait.
Oh bliss. Third glass of local vin - with food! 2 blanc and 1 rouge. Very good menu du jour. Speciality of floating islands! Now considering cabernet franc/cabernet sauvignon and fer servadou wonder! I have found a reason to be drenched a la francois! Plu!
Now I will walk tall between the heavy drops. My shoulders are raw and sore and no longer mine. Take them! They lie to me of happiness and truth. It will return my power; yet after rain becomes the sun? Oh yes!
The best conversation and relief without speaking another language. The nuns of the Relais Hospitalité. A sacred place honouring the notre dame/virgin mother and a good place to sleep gratis. Gratitude of me this soaking wet Thursday afternoon. I could wander back as the happy monk around midnight cleansed of raininess and relieved openly; hick!
Or I openly believe the community of Christians accept you freely after the rain. You don't need words or a language to show you care.
Time to wash my trousers; the second day straight and another day to feather a bed without rushing. We're not in June yet so this walk is unofficially happening.
The weight of my Sac plus rain is becoming too much for my shoulders; gentle things. Francis arrives via Saint-Dôme. He did both hills in one day. At 30 it feels possible. But I can't. What a tragedy that I feel anyway at all is not all ways at all.
Christrinity is communism. I've always thought if we do not acknowledge our needy/greedy side we share and give selflessly. We accept our similarity and love one another freely. Just bought some communal wine and helped the nuns prepare the evening meal. A little free work for little free love from this community of Christians. We put in so we can share; not so we can take anything we care to put a meaningless importance and gather in ever greater degrees. All possession is idolatry. No possession is how we are born and how we leave. Humanity needs nothing to be. Carrots peeled and Swedes too. Soup and bread. One glass of Blanc and now most tired.
French voices and rain falling on a corrugated rusty red iron and around the mysterious alley: Estaing; while I consider the hidden forests and rivlets of smoke twisting and turning a thought to deluge and confiding sweetness to but a few daunted whispers of something somnobulant and splendor to come. I consider I gave my mind to the rain and it returned what I always forget ...
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