Pilgrimage Pt.21.
When you pack to leave, and those things which were unravelled are rebound and put away tidily and you leave the room as you found it in a pelegrins Gîtes d'etape, it seems that you no longer exist or the place you moved through briefly was set aside from the cosmic reality and will not exist once you move on from it to the next stage of this paradiso/purgatoro/inferno we call life.
Breakfast was started earlier so the two female pelegrins could leave for matins mass next door at the Carmelite Monestry prior to sept heures. Michael in the bed next to me is an American without a head. He has begun romantising his 'home' and thought he had already broken his pilgrimage as he decamped in Figeac. I reminded him the way is still here and he just needs to start again, but I also repeated the parable of Marjory in the Abbey Saint Foy, Conques that pilgrims have made their ways to Santiago de Compostella by foot, donkey, horse, bicycle, motorbike, car, wheelchair or with a whole towns and carriages by queens and kings, bishops and popes. The pilgrimage is in the mind not just the mode of transport; les bus da Lot.
Over half of my clothing I am yet to even consider wearing. The functional attire is the only regularly used items: regatta fleece, rain jacket, berghaus short and long sleeved wicking shirts, lowe alpine trousers, next cargo shorts, four pairs of walking socks, one pair of lounging socks, yha coniston holy howe jumper, volcom jeans(at night), volcom trilby(day/night), open toed sandals and berghaus hiking boots, two pairs of grey fruit of the loom underpants. The remainder of the shirts for show are occasionally being brought out for a different look, but might as well have stopped in Wetherby, England.
Setting off at 8am for the train/bus direct to Cahors. Said a fond farewell to both Jacques and Figeac two fantastic reasons to decamp and revitalize on the GR65. Because there were only five persons, four pelegrins and our host, I left perhaps enough food for the next cargo of pelegrins. No mash, but loads of beouf bourgorgne. There is more cloud cover today the fourth of June and I travel on in the knowledge Figeac will be put safely back in its tidybox in this corner of France for the next passing seeker of truth amidst the torrid flow of petrolheads and leviathons. I leave a donation of €20 for two nights sleep broken by Gallic tones, rustling American and symbolic snoring Swiss
First conversation of the trip back to Wetherby. Phew they're still there. Nothing changes, but Snoopy is in mums bed ... I love my friends and family, but I miss my Huckleberriness more than mere words can say; I transfer my fondness to ever attentive doggy I meet.
The bus arrives. The bus driver does not help me to deposit my baggage and I struggle to open the hold; he sends a black student back to assist; cunning. I pay my mere €13.10 for a swift and less physically challenging few days in the Jardin of Saint Jacques. We swing passed the Lycee and deposit the youngsters and the bus, simple comfort but necessarily vacant of teenage staring eyes. Let us go, you and I, once the sun has risen in the eastern sky to our passing veneration leading us onwards to this years solstice.
It is two days since I washed and three since I washed any clothes. I am unaware of unwanted smells. My boots got caked in all colours of mud, but support my feet in comfort and freedom to choose the route without fear. I have everything I need.
Along the roadside the flag of Saint Jacques is still waving me on; white and red single stipes beckoning me follow a dream without fear or doubt to tread.
Albums for the journey: Supergrass::Supergrass Is 10(Strange Ones) Stereolab::Emperor Tomato Ketchup(Album), Blur::Blur(Album) ...
We're traveling along the right bank of the Lot through a canyon cliffs guide the river and our path on a margin of land; I am grateful to be following the mighty Lot as I clearly lost that as the Célé confused me in Figeac.
On The Road has reached a seedy Frisco without any other propulsion than gravity and momentum and inertia. Saving money by using a force freely given as the universe spins on its Axis.
Just passed Cajarc and seen a rambling Swiss Patrick. I hastly knocked upon the window. The bus pulls over and the coloured lass with massive tracts of land leaves the journey; thank you for your assistance! We are 48kms from my goal so I will see Patric in only two days. He camps too so my tent £80 will jostle with his 800 Swiss Franc ... oh I am a poor cousin.
The exposed cliffs suggest a great minerally terroir for the grapes that are produced in this area. I am interested in knowing what the white wine is like? This area to the East of Cahor and following the Lot may have another hidden gem ready to be degorged for our degustation? Du Quercy!
Cabaret of the Seven Devils/Inn of the Seventh Ray.
This trip and the last few months back in blighty makes me think anything is possible. I'm amazed at how real I feel. It all started with a new job, antiDs, Robert, counselling and snap decisions; now it flows to my feet and carries me freely forwards with gathering momentum. I've lost weight. I'm stuck with £30. Not had any chance to exchange. The bus pulls up la Gare ...
Oh Cahors!
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