Chemin Saint Jacques/A road to nowhere/Camino Frances
Chemin Saint Jacques
Leeds Bradford International
Setting off on this bright Tuesday morning I have no concussion, broken bones, fractured ribs or dislocated jaw with which to start this adventure (Unlike a previous journey in September 2010) and it is great to wish all 'bon voyage' free of those really very painful memories and memorable injuries - saying this I almost forgot the cruel bruise, attached to my left middle toe, I received by kicking our fire place yesterday!
So the twenty-first has arrived finally; nice. Nick dropped me at Leeds Bradford International; cheers - have a great summer friend!
Snoopy, our loyal Weimaraner, joined me at around five thirty am, but I was already fully awake for a longed for yet tiring day, that will develop before my feet, until I reach my first sleeping destination around midnight Central European Time. Last night I spent a little time packing most of my equipment bringing a combined weight to just over twelve kilogrammes on mother's scales; I must be brave now and put up with a great deal of physical stress. This morning I made sure there is a little sterling in my building society current account to cover some of June's expenditure; leaving me to think, but not mentally stress about July, August and September when they arrive and not before.
Nothing concrete will be fixed until Wednesday morning after the seven thirty mass in Cathedrale Notre Dame du Puy-en-Velay, when I hopes to collect my Créanciale and then get ready for the walk. This Tuesday will be a relaxing, mind opening journey and the passage of time will be the becoming of me. At this point in my existence I hope whosoever looks over Daniel Sherburn will think kindly of me and bless this task I undertake and, as free flowing particles warm the sides of a cup coffee bringing caffeine charged bliss, grasp me firmly in my heart and soul. I think that Yesterday I made my first pact with God; me - pèlerin/him - the Way. And today I lust for the calm before an expanse of 'not knowing' stretches trodden down the GR65; good bye roughly shod Homo Sapiens Englanders, bonjour gracile gracious Homo Gallic.
Checked in.
Spoke to an attendant about where I'm going and for why.
There may be a lot of explaining to do this summer?
My lack of a clear memory made me think that the short walk from Terminal 3 to the closest 'gare' was all I would need to do to reach my first destination. But Paris CDG is indeed one of those monoliths of electricity, steel, concrete and conceptional barriers to egress. However I did eventually fly and I shall not return via a straight road; hoping to linger along the rambling and fortune strewn pathways any chance would lead me. It will be done.
The windscreens on this XYD TGV are very dusty and all the views are made apparently smoggy, smoky, foggy, misty without; and this follows the banks of clouds from east to west. Shame. We pass some body of water twenty minutes from Gare de Lyon-Part-Dieu. Perhaps travelling too fast by train unravels the vast miracle of creation; from an air plane it definitely diminishes it greatly. This blanket to my opaque eyes is preventing escape, but I am told issue de secours and took a hammer. Clubbing frantically away I bring me toward a sight that should signify more with every dwelling presence. Having only travelled a limited arc I still feel the vastness is inhumanely mental and in the quiet coach thumb crusted messaging occurs rapidly with every downward glance. Departing the Modern World is my only hope.
Gare de Lyon-Part-Dieu
Wandering up and down the concourse of Gare de Lyon-Part-Dieu, between my trains arrival and departure, looking for a toilette until I finally find one. But as my bladder/sphincter pushes dangerously out I need to spend 50 cents not the 40 cents which is all I have left in loose change. I think further 'why pay at their convenience for your desperation?' The second train, two stories, clean and vast, I jump on and suddenly no longer require the bowel movement that threatened in Gare de Lyon-Part-Dieu. We move on to St Etienne Chateaucrox with me being followed by a mad berserker wearing a lampshade for a hat. I first noticed him talking to himself at Paris CDG. Glenn would laugh: public transport is often a public menagerie of crazies and I hope none of these crazed ones drives us onwards; crackers?
Hell I was too busy writing so I just missed the mighty Rhône on my right. Shame on me my veins could pour out all the vin rouge I drank back here! At Givors-Ville a solitary chimney sprouting alone keeps watch on my passing sign; a record of a mill that once stood next to the platform. To have only glimpsed the mighty glimmering Rhône as dusk settles on central France leaves me thinking of GSM. Wine will be done.
Day 1:
Voices American, Dutch, German, Swiss, Argentinian, Korean and French - Relais Saint Jacques in Le Puy. Finally that long day is over and I am well rested; the rest of me begins again today. It is nice speaking to so many happy people over a breakfast of coffee in bowls, pain and confecture (abricot and fruit de la boisson). Coffee, peace and islands of bread floating in a black sea.
Late last night, in the dark, I climbed the steep slopes watching for any appearance of the cathedral, showered in incandescent light, while the incline was great something brought my body, without a map, directly to the doorway into my bastion for this only night. Donativo. All given freely for a fraction of the cost we would be expected to pay and where a man awaited me two hours past the curfew helping me with smiles, hushed words and nods towards the bed. Divinely placed, in order and quite simply clean. Perfect. No headaches. No 'the time is nigh' fears. No worries of flea bitten ungrateful soreness on the morning. Leaving a donation is the obvious thing to do.
This morning I sit considering those black and white polished cobbles up the side of this ancient volcano and feel something better for yesterday's cloud straining battle against the perpetual interlocking madness of modern transportation. Striding up the basalt stoned relic to the lord's prayer at Mass in solemn and sacred French. Blood of a sacrifice in a chalice begins a new journey from blood to wine to blood. The silence and tranquillity in the vast and dramatic space; vernacular French ascends me from forty feet and more. The miracle of a wafer put on tongue. Corps de Christ but not do knowing of protocols in a language of mystery. In the silence of creaking pews we observe a miracle and part and part becoming wholly one.
After matins at seven thirty am this morning I have just checked into my second nights accommodation in Le Puy, but now off for a café noir and to chill prior to a little sight seeing and I will leave the morning after; heading out on the Chemin de Saint Jacques/GR65. Some good vibes already as people are truly helpful and offer simple, but very useful, advice to a potentially naïve traveller: looking after sore feet after a long day, etc.
Coming down from my bed for this evening, Gite des Capuchins, to a very noisy town centre, morning headache, after the tranquillity of the Cathedral Notre Dame as the main road through Le Puy is being dug up and replaced. How different the past seems with its kid gloves kissing sweet pea with tenderness and modernity with its iron fisted gauntlet grasping broken shattered and dethroned roses. Thomas from Buenos Aires Argentina searches for patisserie filled with crème anglais, Dieter the German goes up the avenue I'd already been to that morning and I tune into a wonderful French femme while watch a fountain pouring water in a spray enveloping all the colours of the rainbow and I digest the strongest café noir ahead of a grimace of tourism.
After that short americano (they do coffee so well here!) Thomas and I set off for the nineteenth century statue of Notre-Dame de France (sculpture Jean-Marie Bonnassieux) sat overlooking the city towering on the lava plug over the streets below. As it sits watching us on its very ancient throne I can see that this geological feature has been a focal point for humanity since we could conceive of a thought about our place in the cosmos. The cathedral is built as a doorway for the light from the east to ascend to the altar with all streets following from the east in a sweeping hyperbole; unlike every church I've ever been in this one has its main entry underneath the vast upper Romanesque colossus. There is a crest and notch in a mountain in the east from which glorious sun light will well up into the spiritual place(around Easter or Christmas?). So movingly ancient this place is and celebrations of the solstice or equinox happened here well before Christians, or even gods, were realised to exist. It has been passed down the aeons for ever and for everyone. You can feel its majestic symphony; the real sun shining on the raw lava, made solid and dense millions of years before, from the edges of the bowl. The cone has vanished with the time and tides but this extension will feature after our civilisation has faded back into the under-stairs cupboard of time.
Now having been forced to pay a little too much for an open, well constructed and light weight sandal; which won't cause many issues when walking smaller distances, after the main event has occurred, and at a price similar in the UK, I feel my feet will now survive the evenings when I give them a chance to freshen up.
Looking for some lighter blister socks, I found a string of three very interesting shops along the main shopping thoroughfare. Firstly bric-a-brac and antique with reflections of the Chemin de Saint Jacques in other eras, amongst some crime novels, a Sartre or two and a surprisingly dense and sexy selection of early 1970s Chanson LPs; another time. Then a fromagerie with at least two fromage de Pays; Very local, to be expected in France, and very tasty; like cave aged Lancashire or Wensleydale (must pop back tomorrow). Finally, when it seemed I had little chance of finding a sexy sock shop, I stopped via the covered market and was assaulted with a fantastic wine merchants also offering local produce and a local beer Biere Artisanale Sornin. Btw he confided in me that Auvergne produces a local Whisky aged in Armanac casks. I bought two bottles (of beer) to examine at leisure this evening!
Just bumped into Thomas who has been walking and sight seeing all day. I am still feeling the side effects of yesterday, and the early rising for breakfast and mass, so need to relax before I set off tomorrow in earnest. I will need to meet Le Puy for its 'plot' so I put on some trousers and drift back up the heavy igneous mount. There will be pain and fromage on the path tomorrow. Suddenly with so much happening I am running short of hours in the day. Less traipsing and more contemplation after watching the town drunks. Different language, same wild, ragamuffin, strong beer, daytime boozers on Place du Martouret. But I wait with the sun peering out a glass of Gros Manseng, Brument 2010, and promise myself it is only one at the Tam Tam brasserie as I haven't come here to end up drunk. On Place du Clauzel I welcome a Ridgeback and it's now twice I have welcomed canine friends this day because I'll never forget those doggy kisses.
Day Two:
Got up, jumped out of bed, packed and now I am ready for breaking my fast. In total, last night, I had a glass of Gros Manseng, Some excellent local cheeses and two beers from a local brewer. Slept from around ten until six am (five in UK). Now I am awaiting my morning coffee from a stunning mademoiselle. The wonderful smells of freshly baking croissants and thick luscious French roast coffee. Paradise is here in combustibles again Buerre a la Brest au Breton. Starting this breakfast to gentle voices French. Thank you for offer me coffee in which a spoon is stood up and I know I will always willingly be a Francophile/Gallophile type.
They is another form of maddening head shake these French femmes in my eyes; why can't I have one? It is a holiday weekend. The same one I flew from in Brittany in 2000. I am back in France without the other mechanical camping site building requirements. My tears fall for joy of French voices and my heart jumps a beat faster from deepest kava.
Passing by the window march a cluster of prisoners, aka pensioners, who now fear death's grip unless they seek redemption after retirement. Off they stride passing my temporary bower and I am sitting on the left side of the path I will follow after I consume unto some equilibrium. Before departing I will need enough water and a couple of bananas for breaks along today's etape and the sun is shining after two windy days it appears to have settled down; for today? Thomas left to find his mother's sides relations via train and bus to Figaec to reach a little village called Capdenac. I am finishing breakfast with compote de pommes raw lovely appleliness.
Last night I took time to re-read Lesson Eleven of ACM before passing out and on the edge of sleep I woke and spoke to Thomas as if he was the person in my dream. He seemed a little confused by my actions. Very very far out man! Finishing off my ablutions and lastly putting on my walking boots ready for the steady way. Twenty three kilometers to St-Privat-d'Allier then rest. Need to fetch water and banana from the Spa I noticed on Place du Plot, down the hill, then back along the GR65.
***
Bonjour world! I've just walked 20 km in less than 4 hrs carrying a 15kilo rucksack and I feel great. One last hill after Montbonnet will bring me to my first rest. I've spent the entire time pointing at objects with a French man(Dominique) and trying to learn what they were – Nettles, Grass, Cow Parsley, Mud – and I leave him with another French gentleman who speaks no English. No one has overtaken me, but I seem to have passed dozens, over nine years walking our dog has taught me well how to walk in all conditions; oh what arrogance, but remember this isn't a challenge!
I left Les Capucin and town at eight am and began the steep steady Route/ Chemin/ Camino/ Way/ Path, as it rises straight behind Le Puy to the south west, and I was really huffing and puffing with that first exertion beyond sustaining compote and charging coffee. Stopping to look back at the cathedral and statue this morning I know I will probably never return here. There is a great vista spread from the terracotta tiled roofs and the bell tower rising towards the nineteenth century's crowning statue. By now I am sweating happily into my stride. The tempo of my exerting is soon over as I hit the smooth rhythm that always defines my stamina, once the initial assault is complete. We pass a number of quite fascinating natural lava monuments, with detailed signs in French, German and English and I can no longer hear any of the buzz of motorcars following me from the A1 and the mind-bending drill that is digging up the roads in Le Puy has become a faint memory. Any noises like this will prevent me from ever really loving the roar of modernity and I don't think you can negotiate with nature when you can no longer witness its existence, presence or smile with it.
Two brief stops today with Dominique for a coffee I spilt everywhere and Verbena tea with silver toothed Mr Joel Bernadette (I remember his surname because we made a joke of it sounding like bend a knee), who's wife can't talk because she has had some teeth removed but he calls her anyway as she apparently speaks better English having worked in York, and we came down the road together ducking through some sodden pine plantations finding an alternative path where possible! Oh look a sign post for Dallas, JR! He leaves me to find his Hotel for the evening.
So I have arrived in St-Privat-d'Allier and, while I relax on a stone wall looking up at the 12th century castle, providing biscuits for a wandering waggy tailed Monsieur Chien (a Labrador), I consider my first walk bold and expect my first bed to be firm while the clouds gather over head. Once I check into the first Gîtes d'Etape I find only two other pilgrims join me in that room and I realise suddenly I met them very early yesterday morning at Relais Saint Jacques - Christian of Halle, Saxony-Anhalt and Patric of Basel – but Christian is having to return to Germany after damaging his knee coming off the hill behind St-Privat d'Allier. He seems to have gone through quite a lot of challenging walks and I hope that this hiccup will not prevent him returning once his knee is solved (I found out later that he'd split the muscles behind the knee cap, Ouch!) and I wonder if I will see these guys regularly along the Way as they seem genuine, helpful, open and honest.
Day Three:
A new experience was the eating of chitterlings sausage in mustard sauce, with gratin dauphonoise (Hotel Chambon, Saint-Privat d'Allier), I didn't know what to make of the texture but I was so damn hungry I wolfed it down and so 'when in Rome' plus the house white wine was clean and washed my palate clean anyway. It was around zero degrees here last night and I felt it as I reached for the blanket left at the foot of the bed. The room was snug but only just and the toilet was bloody freezing! After a visit to the bathroom I realise Patric snores loud so I might have to take today steady? Last night I found a small blister on my left foot, middle toe, but this morning it has reduced. But I expect to know about it tonight. Hey that's what our none shod feet are made for - blisters!
This morning, as I rolled up my sleeping bag, I questioned the German I am sharing my room if it is OK to eat all this animal fat I find in the French diet or if it is a bad thing; I've heard of the French paradox too. For the amount of energy we use walking our body requires these fats and will use them as energy too. Maybe he is right. Fat is really bad for a sedentary life watching Loose Women, This Morning or Jeremy Kyle! So with added gusto, on the 24th, I breakfasted on pain, fromage du brebis, confiture, buerre doux Brest, orange presse and café noir while Charles, my Saint Etienne supporting host, who plays an 'oldies but goodies' Age of Empires with expansion kit at 7:15am, and I take in my second café noir so soon it is Ouvert and out Saint-Privat d'Allier.
The cloud is draped heavily across the top of the mountains, threatening rain, and we must assault it and 1000 metre climb, combined, incline prior to hitting the top of the Aubrac plateau in the Massif Central. With a heightened sense of my mortality I go and finish my ablutions setting off just after 8am.
Aside observation:
Since departing Le Puy I have seen only one ghost for sure (perhaps two) and Corinne, the wife of Charles proprietor of L'Acrobate, is the only one I have paid attention to long enough who appears to be breathing but is the living dead I once observed in my fathers eyes. The other person I saw only briefly back in Montbonnet, as I drank my Verbena tea and tried to understand the Silver Toothed maniac. It was a simple bed and filling breakfast for €17 in Saint-Privat d'Allier, but why do I convince myself I see ghosts in people yet breathing?
***
On reaching the top of the Aubrac plateau, before coming into the first town on the Way, I am suddenly surrounded by cows swaying and ruminating to the chimes of antique alpine bells; in distinct brown and white they provide le fromage du Pays from the tender unpolluted dales, a farmer calls good day bon jour and swishes a stick to guide them to fresh pastures; a dog darts behind the feet of those cattle hesitating.
For the first time in my life I have climbed beyond 1000 metres. From leaving Monstrial d'Allier, which is in the area known locally as Margeride, I climbed beyond 600 metres rapidly; in the frigid hale, bleak swirling winds and twice I reached the tipping point of water and mud. Both feet! But over a crest I hear school children so relaxation and Sauges is before me; phew, and I descended from on high to the town centre of Sauges my body begins to react to the constant tread of size elevens. I set off this morning and didn't halt until I arrived eighteen kilometres later shattered by the stiff inclinations; there were at least three valleys to walk up and down the banks of cliff like crevasses; I ate on the hoof and followed the line of least resistance as much as possible following stream after stream back towards the source. Passing the hydro power station as gallons of water poured off the escarpment I pushed myself to pass all travellers and arrive first in Sauges prior to one. Dominique, for all his age, was flying but I was a buzzing fly too momentary and fleeting. Receding were all; Japanese and France; it's not a race, but I felt supreme to be top of the class. Neither Patric from Switzerland or Joel of France caught me today. My last opponent was a Deuter emblazoned rucksack German frau. Beyond that I was solo stomping as these fraudulent May snows whipped my nose into a rosy glow and my legs went shaky as I stopped outside some building with steps leading into it; why did I walk so far without a break?
In the town I asked for directions to my accommodations a number of times before, at the entrance to a Tours Anglais, an ancient elderly lady beckoned me to stamp my Créanciale – my first conscious stamping – in what I guess was her habitation. I was in a rush to get my feet out to breath again so I hushed her rabid Gallic prose as well as I could and promised to return later for my blessing. Finding the d'Accueil de la Margeride became a challenge as I waned inwardly finished. Passing arrogant school boys, slicked back hair with a flick knife at the ready, a corduroy school master and another younger less threatening femme I finally crossed the threshold to solace and re-composition of my atoms today. With thanks I hugged the lovely femme who signed me into and rushed to urinate; phew: and relax, but there are no toilet seats! Time for a siesta then douche before finding dinner tonight.
In my haste in the main square the first building I enter to get directions had once been the pilgrims infirmary/hospital but is now a home for the declining/infirm. For no good reason I ask a gummy fellow for directions before I realise his yellowing visage and blank stare told me I had stumbled into a retirement home for directions. I laugh at my luck finding this first; the word Expo brazened on the side of the door had me entranced obviously.
***
Needing to stamp my Créanciale with the fussy old lady I leave at five to find café noir and log on to the matrix. She is very helpful, via a French couple translation, I must fill in my information on my Créanciale prior to leaving France. I had no time to even read what was within the companion piece or the Créanciale itself. I am awake by 6am and after packing, breakfast and ablutions it is already 8am when I set off for l'eau, compote de pommes and banane and the Chemin St Jacques.
That was my third stamp. I leave her with the dignity of kiss on each cheek and to discover a café to engage with those back in England.
A discussion with my room mates for tonight explains that Aubrac is famous for its beef in France. I can understand that once you see the miles and miles of rolling grasses with hardly a house in sight; Sauges has a population of 2,000 only. So I am happy to discover that the café I drink and communicate from is, from 7pm, a brasserie specializing in beef. Last night I told myself to be frugal when out eating, but today I have grown tired of pain et fromage constantly. I won't be able to escape it until I reach Finisterre, Spain so tonight will be the other side of beef in France! The shower beckons me!
It is Friday in France. I've only just thought of this truth. I hope everyone in England has a fine Whitsun weekend regardless of the horrid things that occurred in Woolwich. Not the weather for it either here or up north; an anti-cyclone is bringing the arctic too close during this month of transitions. Most French I speak to expect 2013 vin to be great or really bad; it happens: more brandy based alcohol, bio fuels and industrial spirits this year?
I've dug out my jeans and jumper to improve my body temperature and the radiators are on all over Europe. This cold spell I can live with if June sparkles and I can choose just shorts all the time. The unseasonal weather actually gives me time to adjust to long walks and carrying a large rucksack and tent. I can feel my additional timber vanishing with each turd, piss and sweat since Tuesday at 6am onwards.
When do French persons eat their evening meal. I have had a Plat du jour at 12:30. I should ask as femmes might frequent the brasserie this night; I am wishing my French was better. Maybe I am the strong silent type or silent but deadly. I will be consistent and try to get this tongue before I reach the first goal of Saint Jean Pied d'Pont.
Best steak ever. Top notch. Rare and perfect. A chef without any ostentations simple. No crazy attire. Just fantastic grub. Mousserron champigone in creme with a gratin cauliflower. Met the older Japanese who has been walking with jetlag too. No snow is good. A minor sprinkling to the north; from my window I cannot see the direction of travel. Awoke at day break more or less and feeling a little more smelly. The wicking base level does the job required but over a few days I'll smell more rank.
The mushroom sauce was simply cream, garlic, salt, pepper and the meat glacie with these midget mushrooms was a great complement to a satisfying steak. I had planned, it being Friday, to look for females in Sauges, but then I realised I need all my energy for the long distance to cover today. No way as dramatic as Friday, but still a steady climb of 300 metres over 30 kilometres; Samedi. I retired around 9pm without a beer. I wrote to Glenn and Nick and sent a few text mothers way.
By 10pm everyone doing the Chemin was snoring gently, except I, but as the light crept though my eyelids around five I realised I too had slept well. I turned over a few times, drifting in and out of sleep, but at ten to six I am cleansed, packed and ready for petit dejourner at fifteen minutes after seven. This organised structure of each morning dictates the progress for the remainder of the day and any one should be able to complete thirty kilometres in around six or seven hours, with a short café break half way. The main thing to keep the walking pace consistent is what energy I am providing my body. I think a pack of compote pommes, three banane and the fig wayfarer biscuits will keep me and I have a copious amount of water, which you can fill up on numerous occasions as you pass villages, hamlets or farmsteads. There is still time to relax into the morning while eating breakfast without being overwhelmed too much by chattering French teeth speaking in unison; it is washing me in absolute French verbal and body language distilled without any English to retreat to and I am learning more than I did ever at school. What is necessary is a real situation to have to grasp what is being said between people and this goes beyond the classroom or a textbook or a Linguaphone self study course.
Having started the day with the simple breakfast we all set off on that crisp morning to continue on the Way. Today is Saturday; take is steady/relax into my steps today.
Yeti! The test of all tests. Driving snow across from the west as we climb up to a point two thirds of the distance from Saint Albans - Les Sauvage – and I must stop. Considerably wetter I rushed up the side of the mountain to peak at 1292m. Coming to the Auberge du Sauvage en Gévaudan nestled against the driving snows that has forced me up this path in such haste. This could be a place to relax and reheat prior to the final leg of a gruelling thirty three kilometres day. Need some warming sustenance definitely. Beef stew and roast potatoes and salad leaves. Readying for my body to assimilate the energy.
With all the exerting came a kind of snow blindness. Everything was tinged with a ring of pink. Now the weather has changed and a thaw is on. Snow balls bounce off the back of my head as we duck beneath the spruce coming out from Les Sauvage to Chapel Saint Roch. Onto a road we're making excellent coverage buy my left third toe whines; a blister and we arrive at Chapelle.
For several days I have questioned myself why there is this daily race; I flee towards the final few kilometres today wondering who am I trying to compete with? There isn't anyone to beat and I feel a little pushed by that Frenchman in shorts, so I let him disappear ahead and ignore his continued beckoning and pressure - sod you! So Sunday will be a gentle wandering into Aumont-Aubrac; there is no rush.
Reached La Maison du Pelerin. Shattered. Totally worn out. My left knee is swollen so much with walking badly and my blister is aching. A Dutch guy, Hank, has got a beer. That would wipe me out I fear? Well maybe it wouldn't, but I have no way of testing this theory as a recline on my bunk.
Met a dog at La Maison du Pelerin. Wondering how Mister Dog is doing back in Bramham. I always give a warm hello to any dog on the way.
Am I wrong feeling that perhaps a lot of people don't do this Way of St James for themselves? Why would you only consider this romantic reality after you are retired. Has life had no meaning at all?
The older pilgrims were actually bringing me down but our host and hostess provided a scrumptious feast and entertained us. The dog here is so friendly I may have recovered a little from my negativity after the last leg of the walk. Tomorrow I'm booked into a friend of the hosts Gite fifteen kilometres which is a relief. I realised today I've been moving one way or another since Tuesday morning with our dog and I am not on this journey because it is a challenge, but I might fall into the other category described by the confraternity of St James. Before I get carried away with had become a race there needs to be a night and morning like today. I've hit a low in my mind because I've been listening to the ego dictate my reasoning; with a couple of outside influences.
A simple meal became a beacon to what I had chosen as my path on this journey. I will complete my Camino another way with less demands daily.
I shared the room with a retired couple from Konstanz and a retired Dutch man who comes across as slightly seedy, suggestive and laughs heartily at his own wit. Most words levelling his lips are expectantly humorous!
On the walk yesterday I was wondering how I remove someone else's shadow from my thoughts. A man I see that is a corruption of truth and yet doesn't see it. A man who has everything yet seems to value none of it. He must be in my thoughts more often than I am in his.
Le petit dejourner day five. Sat in the lounge cum dining room of our hosts as she cuts the morning pain and asks me if I am married or have children. I answer her I don't I have nothing.
Scrumdillupious confecture a la rhubarb and elderberry rhythm of the jams. The dog is happy in his place after a lonely and solo doggy wander around Saint Alban's looking for the saviour and those to bless with his tinkling.
Last night our host, over dinner, told us the tale of the local wolf, who had been murdered centuries ago, and was blamed then, and forever, for any evil deed that only a man would commit, thoughtlessly, on his fellows. A tragic tale of a scapegoat used as a means of escape for one barbaric act.
After the most complete five courses of lovingly created fayre, and locally made cheese and bread, I spoke directly with him of my last days horrible chase and how I felt haunted and lost upon the frozen mountain trail. He saw that I was in a state of considerable agitation and in need of help. It was then that he told me that he was a good spirit put there on the junction of the roads to help those needing support, guidance and friendship to take the correct steps towards discovery of their path.
The transformation of a man to a wolf then back to a man.
The humped back, silver toothed jongular driving me to meet my fate with snow blizzard along our path; hiding our footprints.
My delay with a memory of the knights of Saint John put my foolish guide ill at ease. All his efforts were in vain; as he was unable to force my feet beyond redemption. So voice or something called me back and forced me to stay there to save my precious heart.
He was a most peculiar man hopping from foot to foot, with his silver stare, his tarnished grin and the weight of his back bending him almost double within the domain of the knights.
Unable to speak the certain words to charm me again for his deliverance and lift his curse I pressed on through the snow towards the Chapelle St. Roch with him at my heels and pushing my stride; chasing me towards his final chance to deliver me.
The race I had begun was not something I thought I would contend with without choosing of my self.
When he saw my fate was not in his reach he moved on to another victim.
The orange ogre was without a smile and a little love only.
I was caught in a trap like a rat in a cage or a butterfly formulated on the pin. He forced me to bend at the knee for him; I thought this was for a blessing but was sudden to realise he meant to manacle me. Once I saw his silver canine twin sets of twin teeth I recoiled in shock, realisation and awakened from the dull sleep he had placed on my head.
Once I realised the fact that I was being occluded in this desire I stepped forth leaving the snow, heavy clouds and the fool tumbling over his footfalls and arrived to be brought to safety in the home of pilgrims; I saw him not from then on.
I retired with a haunted mind and a pained expression, but felt relieved to have escaped alive.
In the morning the lady of that Maison provided me a salve to protect me from the false threats that had almost taken me from the purpose and meaning of my reawakening and now out of that place I follow a snake like path to hope, solace and encampment.
Walking away safely singular once more I knew then that a kind wolf had been benevolent towards me taking me in and repairing me to walk onwards without the possibility of doom.
An animal is a beast, but a man can become a monster. Today was considerately easier going for me. I set off after petit dejourner alone and promised I wouldn't spend any of today's stage in anyone's company. I have learnt already this is my walk and must do it my way all the way at all costs.
After a superb communal supper I went to bed on the top (in a bunk bed) for the first time along the way. Hank the buffalo was below me and the German couple from Konstanz were in a double bed nearest the window; without any curtains so you could only sleep dusk until dawn. I slept peacefully until Hanks snores brought me out of slumber around half past five. I tried to block out the pulses but it was impossible. Eventually I got up and packed ready for breakfast and the continuation of the Camino.
After two successively fast paced and relentless days it felt that Sunday mustn't be as forboding so I could just get somewhere and feel a little more like a whole bodied man again!
I walked passed the church to find the Spa to pick up my daily combustibles and took to the steady path. I was consciously aware of my left foot and both knees (after breakfast I had bought le Maison home-made Arnica oil to help my aching knee joints) so I set off steadily, but with a mid point halt at 7.5kms in my plans, reaching Bi(g)nose within one and a half hours. I tried to stick to a pace guaranteed not to get me to my pause day shattered.
I stopped to have a café and one quarter of my sustenance around 10:30. I have realised I divide my walks in to quadrants with enough energy food for four stops. Compot de Pomme, banane and figue biscuits(4) - I am not in the right season to hope for windfall the same why I could in Croatia; if summer ever arrives.
I arrived in Aumont-Aurauc having developed a fable on the hoof. The doctor in Leeds told me not to ignore the world around me, but I don't think I did. I was still aware of all the sounds and sights as well as the change in the terrain. Whenever an idea struck me I added it to the tale I am telling.
There was every chance I would've showed at this gites, looked and felt disengaged and carried on, but it is safe to say that this is up with the Czech Inn for simple luxury: everywhere there is pine, oak or sweet chestnut in the design of the interior. It smells of a sawmill deep in a forest:
Chemin Faisant.
Once I had arrived and changed I went out to phone my hostess to let her know I had arrived. I waited in the midday sun and saw Hank coming my way. He was hanging about waiting for his hotel to open, I didn't mention how luxurious this gite is because the vibe would've been broken with his over bold lewd joke telling and manners. Phew he carried on without me dropping a clanger!
A French couple arrived an hour or so after me and so far that might be all arriving on the Chemin Saint Jacques heading south west.
Zero half-day, Sunday 26th May.
Shuffled around the edge of the old town and being aware of what is on offer today: local wine and pizza or a local Aligote (potato and cheese). Half of me wants to stay in Aumont-Aubrac and the other half thinks get moving tomorrow. My mind says yes but my body says no!
The French lady states that a full wash dry is a hefty 11 euros. Good job I can't smell myself at the moment ... I will ask my host as maybe I could do it for less?
The mad man I was hiding from today has been seen by the Dutch twins, I see at least twice a day, boasting his latest achievement was only 3 hours from Saint Alban to Aumont-Aubrac: snap! and I was taking it steady and I stopped for an hours recompose.
Paid my hostess for two nights with only breakfast on my day of departure. I will cook Monday night and may have a massage prior to finishing the Aubrac in style up at Aubrac the village, which overlooks the Lot Valley.
Come across the road for a final plat du jour. Some vin and a pretty femme. Expect to sleep forever tonight. No issues at all. Whole room to myself. Tomorrow night might introduce younger persons towards my flight on Tuesday?
Oh vin! Why do you treat me this way?
Real nothing day. Bought a couple of things I'll need for camping after I reach Conques, including a purposeful multiple knife: Victorinox. Last expensive day too. Next location only €8.50 per night. This town is quiet at 12:30 as everything closes for the afternoon, but for a change the sun is out so it feels like a great day to stay put. Spent a tidy sum on dinner last night as everything is otherwise closed on Dimarche. Been to the pharmacy for foot cream, voltoron gel and contact lens solution.
Did a wash first thing and now everything is back to clean for another four days muddiness. Meant to rain on Tuesday and be about 10 degrees centigrade. It is a surprise that the weather here on the Aubrac Plateau is exactly like the UK. It's a kilometre closer to the sun so that must, by degrees, makes it feel like the UK. All the flora and fauna is identical too. Like an island in south central France. If anything we are still in early spring here as the leaves on the trees are still at budbreak stage.
Sending a postcard home from my second stage start point. I'll continue this tradition at Conques.
Was infinitely sore yesterday so my body slept until a fabulous 9:30am and all my preparations for merdi departure at 8am was complete by noon. C'est la vie ...I need to clear out of this town as soon as the dawn has broken. All I needed here was those functional things we take for granted when we have occupational responsibilities. Saved three madam from Quebec the indignity of Gites Calypso. A man with a badly tattooed arm, a collosal 'I've never even been in a boat' faux sailor's air and huge wowser. How easy is it to see vagueness in out of the way places? The self same vagueness England's pubs exhibit. So far I've managed only a couple of beers at meal times. Last night I ordered a half bottle of Vin a la Maison. It was to wash the food down and was insignificant. Having eaten my fill at the Hotel Aubrac for lunch I will abstain from anything else until I cross the street, duck into the Rival store and pick up my provisions for 35kms tomorrow from 8am. The first part of the pilgrimage is concluding with me definitely mentally refreshed and bodily reorganised today, 27th May.
Read a few chapters more of On The Road to the point he shares a bus journey with a Mexican femme from to LA. Mad! He crawled in the window! Is that what Dylan meant? Having read it so far I can empathise with his sudden urge to carry on travelling regardless of final destination.
Will I be hitching from the 9th June to catch up with my buddies in Montpellier before hitching back to continue the Camino a week later? Glenn has been to pick up the Euros I sorted before I left.
I'm sat on my balcony as all the life of rural France flies by; it is exactly as meaningless as in the UK. I think more of the wolf in sheep's clothing as an obstacle to overcome through self examination. He had no knowledge of what I was seeking but my mind allowed him to enter my subconscious and bring forth demons. He is at least a day ahead of me now.
This morning I was ready to leave the Chemin Faisant by 7:55am. A breakfast with people leaving by train to jump forward some 300 kms in seven hours; catching three connections at various stations: that also is a Way.
Walking though Lasbros my thoughts turn to Lord of the Rings as I am walking passed a feature known as Barradou.
The two Germans I saw this morning, who I assumed to be French, I left behind at Le Gare Au-Au, but as I approached Chapelle de Bastide the cheats were already ahead circulating like the Kaiser's Raptors.
Onwards at a steady 5.6kms per hour I am covering the distance respectably.
...
'fucking weather, ha!'
What happened to the weather. The wrath of god was upon the moor. From a cloudy day to a torrent of earth molding rain and, for the last eight kilometers, head on sleet straight at me. I can't actually afford a proper meal, but I'm soaking and cold and I swore at the Aubrac like a man possessed.
So beef and aligote will solve my inner need. I read somewhere that this pilgrimage should work out at 1€ per 1km. Today is the test. If I do 35kms I will leave Aubrac the village 35€ lighter. Perhaps my sanity has been pushed on that moor. I'm wet. My balls and tintagel have just about vanished. I felt tossed like a leave as I weaved up and down over ever more horizons without a house, farm or barn ever coming to meet me. When they finally did I found it wasn't blasted Nasbinals, 1180 metres further from reality. Where is the roaring fire and the buxom wench? The warm hearted woman for this frozen homme. In the distance I hear Django Reinhart drawing my thoughts far into a distant land of repeated lavender fields and the red sinking sun. Sol, where be you today?!? Come back and play with us a while. Kiss us with your loving, passionate, lips.
Between Au-Au and Nasbinals zero euros and now 19 down on a warm sunny day you could manage all 35kms none stop. If I leave now to reach Aubrac will it stay dry for eight kilometres?
...
The last stage went upwards and on forever. I really thought I would never see that Tours de Anglais before my legs gave in. 35 kilometres weighed down by a rucksack waterlogged, boots sodden and trousers wringing isn't a happy way. Just as I was giving up ever seeing this Aubrac, from a V shaped cutting in the trees stood the fine four storey English Tower over looking the cloud bound horizon; at the beginning of the end of the Aubrac Plateau. I arrived in the ancient church to be guided a few more gleeful steps to the Hotel that deals with the reservations for this ancient tower become gites. Staggeringly lovely and romantic soaring high over the villager's heads; I imagine Eleanor of Aquitaine being sung to passages from romante de la rose while troubadours earn erstwhile love from white hearted ladies.
A minor drawback - I couldn't manage to pay for the bed at the Hotel because they only accept cash or cheques(!!!) and acting on behalf of tourism office in the next village along. I freaked that I was wet through but would have to walk another eight kilometres to find and ATM or bureau de change. Luckily she told me tonight I could stay for nothing but pay the €8.50 in the TI office tomorrow; which I will as all good things etc. It was a long walk. I will sleep soundly and forgo breakfast and eat in the village where I must pay the ferry man.
Fig rolls in France are exactly how I recall in my youth. Jacob's used to make them full of lovely fruity loveliness. I could eat a whole packet today. Not going anywhere out side the tower now except in the morning. Next port of call will be Saint-Côme d'Alt in a steady 23.4kms. So plenty of time for fig rolls!
As I was struggling towards Nasbinals I tentively tried to hitch straight up to Aubrac. The first vehicle was La Poste van; he couldn't stop, then came a tractor; no space to hitch and finally when I couldn't take anymore a Peugeot sped past without a second glance; vainglorious bastards! I'll teach you about the lion going from strength to strength!
There are 58 steps between me and the throne; either way it will be freezing come morning. Most of my clobber is dry again: except the cotton stuff. Lesson learnt there.
Snow falls again so choosing to stay in and do nothing has proved sensible, however prunes, compote de pomme and fig rolls are not a banquet fit for the histories played out by chevalier's passing this way around 1100. The wintry weather would be preferable to the damp mess Tuesday was. The Aubrac plateau reminds me of the North York Moors; hardly a tree in sight, except spruce plantations, and bogs a plenty. It's great cattle weather, true; the beef is dead cheap and excellent and the fromage de Pays is top banana. Cantal is Cheddar! Actually apart from a couple of working horses the only domesticated animals I've seen are cows, mangy feral looking cats and bright eyed working dogs.
So muddy. I feel like a soldier in the winters of the trenches. Set off walking before petit dejourner
at 7am. Wanted to come away from the snow and mist I hit St Chély d'Audrac and the heavens open again. I can't walk a second day soaking wet so I stopped to have breakfast. The day is cruel until a man in a van comes to Relais St Jacques who carries bags down for the lightweight walker. I hitch for to Saint Côme d'Olt. If I had set off any later in the matin I would've arrived soaking again!
Wow! A quick look around the church in St-Côme then rejoin the GR65 lighter by €15, but drier by far more. I went forward around 15kms so I still walked over 15kms and arrived in Espalion. One stage further but no less torture; the rain lingers, but is more on and off than constant. I still come down into Espalion cussing St Jacques and all his many demons. Chasing me up another twisting and sodden excuse for a path.
Now the rain is steady like you get at the seaside: Whitby, Scarborough or Bridlington; flip your coin! I take cover for a wonderful galette and to await the opening of the Gites. The weather has no meaning. It is meaningless to weight it down with personifactions. But the rain fills me with a deep longing for more yellow mellow circumstances. It is what it is.
Something I've eaten has come straight through me; Delhi Belly. Not sure what it might've been but there were plenty of flies at Relais St Jacques ... the food itself is usually 100% so maybe the water could be a possibility. It is a relief this didn't occur when I was marching this morning and before I climbed the hill between St-Côme and Estalion. That was tough climbing through the black stone quarry soaked. I'm not bothered about statutes of Notre-Dame really. I wonder if rural France never saw anything of the Revolution at all? There seems little to have changed since 1789 except motor cars; the diet must be identical? The food can't be a reason for these tidings.
Booked into to a gites occupied by a strangely inanimate Argentinian and Germanic caricature. I said hi at reception but perhaps shouldn't. I don't think he could conceive I had jacked England in on a whim. Body language and face of an unhappy person. Step back from over caring about what is meaningless; my Way isn't his: c'est la vie.
After a good Plat du Jour toying with the idea of catching a bus to Conques tomorrow to try to catch up with Brad the American PHD student? Will do! It is my Camino and some one must speak English without suppositions or expectations. My French is dreadful: no issues. Someone french, who knows my french is awful, has issues. 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 rivulets of smoke twisting and turning a thought to deluge and confiding sweetness to but a few daunted whispers of something somnolent and splendour to come. I consider I gave my mind to the rain and it returned what I always forget ...Three bassoons playing a mighty sound. A bass and two tenors. Hugely funny. Well not when it is super snores at just about 4am. Hank the orange ogre is the leading instrument of this particular trio. But the rhythm is abrasive and never sings me back to a grave like sleep; I slept through my own memories of completing tasks and feeling open, yet on awaking I felt closed from self engagement. Truly.
I feel mental this morning. I got up to discover all my walking clothes are still wringing wet. I'm not walking to Conques. There is no way I could with a rucksack and another bag of soaking clothes and wearing denim; rain loves denim. I now plan to get to Conques and get a sleeping roll for my tent; from June the weather is meant to improve. Christian the German walker who returned with snapped ligaments managed €5 per day camping.
Either I give the clothes that are adding to my weight to charity, send them back or throw away. Bernard the Priest states you can leave with a charity in Conques.
The transit arrives a little late, I thought I had missed it, around 8:20am. I'm physically shattered today. My back is less painful, but I am overwhelmed by lots of rain, wearing wet boots and heavy snoring. Those things which weren't bothering me are coming to the surface. I was sketching nonsense last night too. Start again as of today.
Shoe polish and poncho.
How many days did it take me to begin to lose the plot? I've been gone since the 21st; 11 days. Ok. This is a mission. Now I recognise no one! Great. Beyond the continuing Gallic tones.
I cheated but I caught the sun. Solace for the soileli. Tranquil village with birds busily building their nests. Although the expense of France makes me feel I should be gone after another 300€. Spain will redress the balance.
I cried. So stressed that I cried. And in the Abbey too. I was saved by two ladies. I took my clothes to dry and the American lady described how the roses were gently caressed by the priest every morning. He has sadly had both his legs amputated below the knee so now he can no longer tend his special flowers. I asked for help. Margorie explained how etape should work. I am poor, therefore I need to state this at the communal gites. I give what i can. The communities of god rescued me from self destruction. Now I Relais with tea: Japanese, overlooking the communities Abbey church.
Back in 2007 I read Spike Milligan's memoirs. In Italy he went crazy with the shells and continual rain. My screaming at the top of my lungs from the excursions after Saint-Pierre de Bessuèjouls was something like this.
I feel better in Conques. I had a coffee with a Dutch professor, Hubert, who feeds the finches; a retired professor of architecture from Amsterdam who invited me at 6pm to share a beer: Fischer bierre d'alsace. We discuss the decline of the numbers of finches etc in northern Europe. They're culling magpies in France as they have become a pest. I leave him to investigate the gothic arches of older venacular homes.
First sign of warmer climate... Lizards on the roof getting warming and waiting for a fresh fly Plat du Jour! Bon Appetite and along comes Patric of Switzerland stopping to recover for a couple of days? I will need to eat soon I forecast as dark grey clouds suggest rain.All of the simple things feel too expensive.
Walking is free but not always easy.
The roofs in Conques remind me of lizards scales and also of Gaudi in Barcelona. Very natural and pliable looking. Not at all regimented or manmade. The colours vary immensely from olive and grey to sandy, cream and blue.
I take the donativo for tonight and the morning and tomorrow pay for my way at the Gîtes d'etape communal.
Conques reminds me of Cesky Krumalov in the sense it is a museum only. Bierre is €3.30 for 25cl. Beautiful and historic and empty and a rip off; strings of souvenir shops: sold everywhere but made in China.
...
Walked rapidly to destination for tonight. A little bit of a hicktown to say it's on a major crossing of the river Lot.
Thought that Patric had sped like a bullet to Denzeville, but he stopped for a break; I didn't see him, but he said I looked miles away. We walked together for a while until he said his feet were tired and sat at the roads edge. I thought the GR65 was going to pass through Denzeville, but it came down quickly and went up steeply behind it too. Looks like I took the longer scenic detour that, although official, adds 5kms to what was an arduous assent from Conques straight up the ravine on the south west side. That means my meandering through vegetation and sludge might've been a little more than I was expecting. Pushing today by 13:45 to 30kms. Next few days look steady and will camp if the weather holds tomorrow in Figeac. Yesterday's bonfide donativo at the Abbey probably saved me 30€. Tomorrow is demarche so need food this afternoon for the majority of the walk. Really rate these Agen Prunes; cheap and plentiful, full of energy and nutrition; pfrt!
Tres bon afternoon. Warmer all round. Eaten. Douched and bought breakfast now chill. Beer cheaper and very refreshing. Come on France, be nice!
Lot hotter today and less windy than yesterday. Set off prior to petit dejourner to reach the camping site earlier to set up tent and go a roaming, but there may be another donativo in Figeac. My legs felt heavy today and it was a struggle to reach my second pause before the final ramble into Figeac in another 9.5kms. Great bar for coffee and sandwich. Before I move on.
Might've eaten too much Pays Saussion last night and one glass too much of Côtes du Rhône? I can't say! Chilled walk should make it to Figeac by 4pm.
Seeing lizards regularly. The bakery in Livinhac was run by the Izard's. Poor quality pain au champagne. Flavourless; none of that wild yeastiness I begun to expect from French bread.
Must've been said before but human habitats and habitations are a repeat of planets, stars and clusters all revolving towards the more massive centre. Like a gravity well the cities pull away the life of the closer persons to the centre; it is impossible to escape unless you happen to have an escape velocity? Right now I am traveling mere light speed to enter the gravitational pull of Figeac before I am slungshot onwards at a faster pace than when I arrive.
It is you that the means of pilgrimage aren't the way of a pilgrimage. Kings and Queens went to holy places regularly, but they weren't able to walk the whole way; they took whole towns along.
Just passed another pilgrim going the opposite direction. He tells me to stay at the Carmelite Mon. Donativo only.
Coming down the last stage to Figeac I smell freshly mowed grass and hear the regular sounds of mowers closer to the centre of wound up humanities. You don't need to speak a way to understand the persons of the way.
Arrived at just after two to a very closed Figeac. Nice town oozing history! Cafe and boots and socks off opposite the Office de Tourisme. Nearly two hours early to see if I can stay at the Carmel hébergement.
True times thrilling through the arteries of my mind once I arrived in Hébergement. Help on my way by the kindest of persons giving freely to those without fear or willing to give tears.
Just took the photo of my life! For sure. Placa de las Castanhas, Figeac. You must see it Paul! The apparently spontaneous is really orchestrated by proto expectations and absurd realities.
Just met Ken and Bouldy and sent a fraught Ken to the herbergement for donativo so he can sort his bank issues after a rest in a bed.
Back at the Carmelite monestry I finally caught up with Brad. We both have elder beards. We agree to cross paths in Cahors soon. He walks 20kms now. See all things are right here now. Even an afternoon of Blur/Blur. On my own but not M.O.R. ever again!We lucky few had the full Hospitalité of Jacques and Marie at the Carmel Gîtes. The best food I've eaten while away.
I asked if I could stay an additional day to look around Figeac and agreed to cook tonight. Seems only fair? So Beef Burgundy it is then. I return for 2pm to go with him for groceries.
Yesterday I was the hyper me. Really very excited; half expecting a migraine because I was dizzily happy with the coincidences of yesterday. I developed a headache from the sun perhaps, but that was all it was; Kenji provided some painkillers after a little confusion when he thought I was asking if he needed painkillers. He had not heard of paracetamol, but that maybe my dialect which seems to fox everyone; even Americans.
After the glorious meal we wandered the town in the dusk then Christian and I went to Le Bar for one glass of Vin du Cahors! Sumptuous rouge! The king of grapes done so perfectly that maybe very few wines come close to that perfection; it is understandable why Mendoza's offerings are so popular.
My mind is finally feeling clear and simple. I was walking through the town yesterday when I had a moment of total happiness. It grew to a crescendo in the Placa de las Castanhas ... The home of Champollion is Figeac. The first man to intepret Egyptian for our modem mode. The Rosetta Stone brought me henceforth to step the way and see a connection betwixt the many aspects of the world and me.
Conspiring to bring me towards this point of change which I embraced entirely. We sang the song of the pilgrim. I had heard this song three times prior but hadn't really heard the meaning. It is a celebration of our way.
Figeac is the second town where looking up to face the day is a reality. Four storey townhouses give the place a palatial splendor; where cats feel they might spend at least one of their nine lives bombing the Placa and dogs wear pink bomber jackets and feel silly.
This is a clear morning to sight see. Prior to the rising of the masses l passed the old part of town and viewed the city from above; I could see the Carmelite Church from behind the city walls. The dawn light populated the sights with blue and striking shafts and ruffled my frantic hair.Nick asked 'are you not sick of walking?' that is a hard question to answer. No not really. Somedays it's more of a challenge to my knees and calfs, but on the whole arriving in the place you're going to stay for the night is very rewarding. I feel I can achieve the totality of this Camino in a variety of modes. Today I wish to stay and be alone so I said goodbyes to all the guys/gals I have met since the 21st. Our paths may cross again on the Way; I am sure. Like the Célé our paths are shaped by the mysteries of the cosmos; moving ever onwards to where? If we see each other not we will be seen in our memories.
I am pausing a day once more. Two solid days of walking. I confess I don't know how to slow my method of ambulant. So I do the distance too fast and my body shudders as it alters to the new flow!
The good vibes flow into me from prefecture Lot. Figeac is sending me by the bus to Cahors and camping for a few days until Saturday(5€ per night). I will do circular walks to see Cahors. Visit a vineyard perhaps? I am totally changed by this city and the expectations of Cahors.
The hardest part physically and mentally was the Aubrac; I could not know the Massif Central would quite so uniquely challenging. My mental image of France was formed from my two visits separated by two decades of youth verses maturity. Firstly in 1984 when I was twelve and never looked beyond my feet in case I was seen looking further than my peers would allow. Secondly in 2000 for French Life where I spent months erecting tents on badly leveled plots and cleaning rusty static caravans in the deluge of spring; with no help from any quarter including the cowboy employers. Neither showed me the external France; those experiences were English: misplaced and misaligned to the sun.Highs and lows. I've looked around and read a little. Now I've returned to the Gîtes for a siesta prior to the grocery shopping at 2pm with Jacques. Feel a little forboding for my decisions to cater tonight. It's so easy! So why am I nervous?
Flying ants up the wall of my room. Moved bed as the hosts attacked the infestation. After a snooze we popped to Carrefour to buy groceries. It is closed until 14:30.
We passed a mutton/sheep fair all penned in to go to market me thinks these be lambs to the slaughter house. Celebration of spring lamb in Figeac changes the tone to one of convenient brutality. Animals go through a very unusual existence for us humans.
It's a while since I stepped into a supermarket; such soulless places. I was a little in awe and confused like a jungle tribe native who'd never clanked his eyes on civilization before. We came away with the hind quarters to slowly cook out the stew for ten mouths to feed a little prior to 15hrs when Jacques entertains more pelegrins from the GR65. I wish I didn't feel quite so confused by the French conversatons. It makes things twice as mental. My mornings milaise has left now that I've kept away from the town that was gently leaving me bewildered and penniless. Jacques paid for the food for our feast. I did offer. Two days gratis. Feel a little truer. This is not a tourist trap!
Before dinner was to be served I popped out for a bottle of Cahors Malbec €4.99. We few, five, ate the beouf bourgorgne and pomme de terre puree. Marie Charlotte is a wonderful enthusiastic girl of 26; wow she is lovely and amazing and joining a convent in September. I was speechless I wanted to ask her not to! She must be in love with Jesus indeed.
Michael, another American, and I sat through a dinner without being able to add words to the French discussion going on between our host, Jacques, Claudi and Marie Charlotte. I'm too full to even considering watching the ongoing deeply confusing stuff; I just want to understand!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!Arrived and pitched my tent. Took no time too. Looks really cosy in there. I'll sleep soundly until the birdies bleep at dawn. Serge is our host for the remainder of the week until my stuff arrives from England. I need to find a roll matress or something compact that I can add to my back without killing it.
I walked round the city and must admit it us another place that feels it. The medieval bridge etc I will see early on Wednesday morning before the crowds and the sun is up.
Been to see about walking to the various vineyards and doing tours of some of the more unusual bit. My random footsteps brought me to French Coffee Shop where the proprietor helped me with instructions. I must head to Puy l'Évêque to reach wines of distinction. As recommended by Yann. He also rates Le Bergouvnoux for great quality food at a great price. He was involved in wine prior to his current venture.
Belmon, Montplaisir, Nozieres VdP. Douzil.
Gaillac domaines d'escausses.
I came back via a shop. Picked up Cantal Doux, Pain Rustique, Vin de Pays du Lot and added to this I feast on Pruneaux and grand Biscuit du Figulo. It amazes me I can relax aside a major European thoroughfare on less money than I could so far. I have two days work left for a few euros and rubbing huile d'arnica de la Margeride to sort my left knee.
Funny episode in La Poste. I changed my sterling. Into around 33 euros. With commission I was reduced to less than 1 to 1 equivalent. But I finally have all I need for the week. But I wanted the cashier to change my 'change' for larger denominations. She thought I was trying to give her another €5 towards commission. They couldn't understand what I was trying to achieve. It took three cashiers, 1 customer and one manager to finally get me to a much more happy 30 euros.
It might be a time to chill ... Serge sorted me with a blanket and matress roll for my guarenteed comfort in early June. But I need a wee and the toliette might be outta sight. I'll pop to the house for a little lemon twist.Everyday leads me towards a wriggling worming wandering wild but somehow structured dance. I changed into semi decent attire for Cahors walk right not left at the Cathedral and via Pont Neuf and come to the House of Wine in Cahors(not called that, mind - I forgot). I struggled to open the door as a young boy span on a carassel, for fifty, uncovered for just one pie on this particular sparkling Merdi nuit, I pushed in to engage Almond in wine plaisir and after much happy nattering he invited me to a full tasting horizontal and vertical for Cahors! Blown away I am. So I've popped by for a couple of strictly educational wines. Le Dousil is the devils wine whore whipping me to wake below twinkling stars and rustling wazow.
Why whine about wine when you're in Cahors? They will look after one! Local, demi doux local, sud VDP and return to first before I walk to the Pont to be mugged, rapped(rapidly), meat hooked and left to drown in a loin of Lot l'eau.
A half eaten bottle of wine
With an incomplete percentage of cheese. Twenty Five Euros and 1/3 if On The Roadbut for what it is worth: a tent; sleeping bag; blanket and the left bank of the Lot to sing me to sleep. The birds signing yet fade back to hooded eyed peace.
Neither have I lain here pondering the somethings of bird outside my bivvy and beyond the drums I hear sounds the wheels of fortune calling me. No candle today, but stretched out to await the dawn sing song call.
You only sleep when it is dark in the world. A clock I dare to see strikes the twice tenth hour and I wait upon the last blackbird to cease it's frantic soliloquy.
Sounds when I arise and the feeling songs of the dawn chorus were within touching distance of my mere bed; Mother Nature's bed. A solid floor without give or sag or impressed body yet! Time will mold to fit my shape as the earth reaches to draw me down to rest in peace. Seven bells called my body up before my descent was permanent and never again would the world be blue and jewellike and free.
With time for a douche and a re-fix of my tent I left to find Cahors right bank and swim to the Cathedral and a Market jumping a volume gallic and brightly painted in product hues; piles of fraise and cherries and asparagus and pain and fromage and jamon and nouget. I wash my mind in plaisir of traditional simplicity and find French Coffee Shop where I left it yesterday to consider my day trip to Puy-l'Évêque and fine wines; quite possibly the finest wines on the finest day of this random and unthought path I tread: Juin cinq.
At 10:30 I am pushing on towards the SNCF Gare to hop on a bus away for this bright cherry of a day; catchya l8r alligator, in a while crocodile?
With a punnet of the smallest and sweetest strawberries I wait until the bus sails into Cahors Gare sun brought a lunch under the perspex shelter, young cheese and sunflower bread, and now I switch to the lounge of the Gare to eat seeds and flesh so red, pouting and rude. The time to go is thirty five minutes of French muzak drifting lightly and Whitney Houston simpering slightly simply stumbling in this sunstruck wait station.
In my head and chest I recall Jared, Angela and Nicola and The Bodyguard when we were inseparable. Jared Nelham. York Clifton Moor years have passed beyond that day for us, but I believe that was a happy halo of a few hours; and I will always love you.
In the dried muddy boots I left my tent to dry in this peach of a day. Blue from horizons all around 360 degrees without clouded shades. A few contrails play about the skies like soaring dragons in flight. Every thing is still and waits the carriage of the sun to his level best and I contemplate the uth in head gear and inner space.
Well, you can tell by the way I walk...
I am going nowhere?
Staying Alive.
To confuse a cute passing French mademoiselle who becomes a feature of us awaiting at a station. I confuse her by confiding the photo she participated in but knew not. Out our driver has one eye focused at me, attentive, and another watching my shadow, lazily, and off we go to Puy l'Évêque for the day.
Another coach journey another distance metered out in songs played at a level to requite the hours; Monomania - Deerhunter. Unburdened the hour flies in the songs played while street signs sigh as they represent constricting temporances.
Look at those row upon row of growths fragrant and fixed until they give away the secret in the changing of all seasons. I am presently pleasantly pondering the real reasons for my eventual escape from nothing real. From all the north and all the south of the escarpment, divided by Lot, sits the future of the Cahors Malbec. The birds swoop waiting for the buds to open and jets burn after the scorching skies. Primary reasons to open and thrust the berries thus as we thrust upon the left bank westward. What an adventure for the pelegrin de l'vin as the east sinks and the airs swirls.
A family tragedy. Son kills sister over the vineyard. Belmont. A father who created it died for it to be broken betwixt two competing emotions; a very French story of vine and humanity. The son wanted to be honest to traditional values and the daughter needed modernity to ruin the perfect with heavy corporate hands.
Yesterday? The phone died as the sun reached the azure in all its hues. So I could walk a number of fifteen kilometres from Puy l'Eveque to Vire-sur-Lot over the Lot at le Port de Vire and north along the D58, such a coincidence I dare not discuss it now! With gathering momentum I reached Duravel and stopped for quiche, eau and to run out of money with no cashpoint in sight. After a quick bowel change, oil change if you will, I looked no further for the 25cent I was then short of for the bus and decided to continue my path back along the main route to Puy I'Eveque all along consider how to financially live out my current deposition in Lot/Cahors.
In Vire-sur-Lot, after five kilometres through generous vines left and right, south and north, gauche et droit I looked for an elusive Chateau I had seen pointed to twice but not come to! I came to a conclusion of a one third Way on this journey: Chateau de Hauterive. Up this gravel drive I trundled with crickets calling me forward, feet after foot, fleeing those sun rays around 2pm: a straw trilby protecting a baldy pate.
... Et older ... Welcomed my solitary footsteps and accepted my Northern tones in generosity of soul/spirit/Saint Jacques way. We discussed the age old question of the age of the vines required to produce 100% malbec 'prestige' and ponder rose, everyday and ponder Chemin de Compostelle and the blend of malbec and viognier working well at a price to loop the loop skip the skip; slipping and gliding; truff la la!
The last leg of my walk back to Puy l'Eveque was under duress of vacant bowels and a hitching thumb and a many heavy trucks bound east; bouncing and trembling my wake as I considered being crushed along the hardshoulder to be seen squashed for years to be.co.me. Ambered.Angered.Out!
In the long sun I waited post eau and banane with impatient youngsters on 50cc, who vanished soon without stepping onto 916 unto Cahors.
And then? No music we passed reversed and I looked out the windows at more of those vines because the college femme left Cahors but didn't return to Cahors. Thus amazing my mind was assaulted by estrogen then but vigneron back over the Lot numerous, too many to recall, into Cahors to hop and collude the streets directly back to rue Jacobins and a tin of lyonaise salad, cheese, jamon la fôret noir and baton baguette and the fin de seicle le vin Prayssac: Une printemps dans le Lot.
Write drunk? Edit sober! Not this trip. Write at leisure au Matins French Coffee Shop. Cheers Yann the French man. He has a crossover vibrance from his travels he is more blooming French than the conceited pelegrin I spend evening meal and petit dejourner waiting to switch on? However from the last night David the Flemish allowed me speak in our fast English tongue to the confusion of all francophone francophiles frankly anywhere! Funny it was? But our host explained the method of Spanish madness in rays of Saint Jacques stella through the regions the closer to the compost stella; merde!
Bed ... As the road to Puy l'Eveque and suppered and frank voice killed me down down down down. The spurs of younger clack clack clack clack blackbirds died.
Walking round the bend of the tumultuous Lot and walking up to a cliff overhanging the linear cataract if I didn't have fear my mind would not resist. Something distant is occasionally speaking to me with abrasive voice: I dismiss it quick and confound with joy le vie.
Awaiting fixed to the spot I stood gollum strong, again for the swallows to dive under the arch for 'the' photo, but they failed to show twice. Following the route GR65 I went above for views of the city and bridge in the foreground and was nervy towards the edge; in sandals I could topple over. It is a majestic city below and beyond. Why pass through unaware on GR65 unless you see only god ahead and not all around.
On my own that voice! I don't know who it is. But it is not the seeing eye. It must be some damned creature infested in a distant cellar. By one I defeat the other one because I know and is wrong. It is a noise from the past; distinctly on its last toe nails.
Taking my turns round the cathedral to Saint Etienne I was washing my head and neck with water from the holy font when Brad walked beyond me into the space. I watched him and noticed he hadn't seen me so I waited til he had gotten solumn and spirited and launched an attack upon his calf like I was a devil reaching up to pull his measerly body into the place we're all going to go (right on brother!)?
We were truly happy to bump, bounce and brave the subtle Ways that continue to deliver interleeveing of our data streams.
But we worried about the virus or corruption in Michael's datastream. His packet to packet had become an exception error from which his only resort was to install a recent backup or wipe his thought clean, or return to his manufacturing home and call the whole thing off? Driven off the way by the longing for a return to apple pie, jelly and burgers. Nothing was alive in his eyes; I've felt close to that breaking tip, but then found another Way truer to the man I am.
I know now I am awaiting a washing day and delivery from la poste to exeunt stage right and march on towards Montpellier and three generations of familied clones and one less gibberish aflayer fumer testiticulars. Not that I condescend to flagellation (Great, that it be? Yes, it is!); ever.
Oh go defenestrate your measerly body down son (of a bitch) as go to meet a one I love; and elsewhere with your squeeky mangle, woman! You distract me like clack clack clack clack/cri cri/cackle. Booked my departure from this department Saturday morning 8:53am single journey; no looking back so go and defenestrate this ... ¡!¡ ...QDJQVJ.
Je suis un pélerin?
Friday morning: 6am, I slept for the third night under the stars with the croaking of the frogs and acquired some tender bites from vamp like mozzies while I took my solace post wine taste from 7pm until 9pm. Some very charming vignerons, sassy ladies from France, England and Alix a mix of France, Scotland, Italy via South Africa. I asked her out today, but some South African family friends arrive today... No can do, but we'll follow each other at a distance ever stretching but internety and betwixt the twain.
By the end of the tasting Almond, host, told me off for helping myself once too often. I am grateful to all whom showed this years blanc ans vintage 2012. Some successes and a couple average and two clear winners with one an interesting third for Sauvignon lovers. I will pop back later to photograph the ones I sampled; for the record I was a little drunk as this was a slurp not a spit!
Drifting after 9pm back to the lovely Corrina ich bin von Bamberg, Deutschland and as a 'cabinet maker' she blew my ickle mind. Made of a pale wood and gently pleasing to the eyes, mouth, throat, etcetera etcetera. With those insects taking a free supper I slipped pleasantly to bed with just one mouthful of trois monts bierre. The tented floor now feels true to my bodied form; it takes a few few days to alter and your mind awakes again; even though I cannot really undress or dress another method but horizontal.
Looking at my role in this journey I hastened to quell the disquiet of my reflexes and accept a pélegrin? Is not a question that needs answering with just seeing the accord of the symphony notated in the key of D major moods on. Upon the scales playing the chorus and harmony yep.
The weather has changed. This morning there are clouds so Saturday will rain; I skip upon the new highway.
Celine/Yann have welcomed me towards this city and everyone I have met has equally delivered a 'real' sense of France. From Serge on the distilled and quieter left bank to the modern crazier right bank I am safety catch trigger happy.
Je suis un pélerin dans le coeur.It struck me this morning that my contemplations began in March and have been marching and evolving since. I read back the first part of my current journey and the latest part and the differences are immense. Celine of French Coffee Shop also thought my tone had moved from appallingly suicidal to frankly free and apparently not feeling my impending doom.
Lots of simple ways to finish my decamp this Friday. Nothing significant other than I bought the 2nd and 3rd best wines I tasted last night. The first sadly isn't available for three weeks. I'll look out for it again. On balance the two wines were a grand €42, but I figure Glenn and I will enjoy them sometime in Montpellier. If Jason were in Montpellier then I would've brought the last wine of the slurping, but sadly he is in England and i won't see him until Rome and an entirely different category of rouge ... rosso - advice on a postcard please Janice/Fabio et al. I aim to walk up to him on the 13th July quite carefree.
Simply concluded a few banking boring transactions: you have to pay the ferryman occasionally. Conclude for canard! ...
And after that feast of duck another bowl of chocolate mousse!
If he be Mephisto then I fart like Faustus freely decadant and glutton bloat! There are plenty of crazy French living alongside the businessman. Misfits of society who seem unable to be the real them? Drugs, drink, sex or desperation. I reached that final tipping point and will not retour while my feet don't fear the tread of molded soles and wearing away tarmac.
If Britain left the European Union I don't think anyone south of the channel would remember there were some oddballs north who chose to flee a better way? England gets closer to the States but will drown in apathy once the continental shelf rips the piece from under our arrogant stupidity.
Like the Gemini stars the dutch twins shine for all about and make me wonder if they are one or two or both.
Always give a dog your love.
Last night tranquility and ar be Jesus there be leprecorns in my room for this Friday relax - Hi Cork/Dubliners.
An OCD day? Yes I am tidying my rucksack for the morrow in a most distressingly calm and organised fashion. Cahors is ending; but I am peacefully and absently silent. Drifting unto the frontiers of Friday I put all my clothing straight along the line and organised it by what I will wear and what I will roll so blimingly sweetly tucked in the bag awaiting the advance of Samedi. I purchased a pélerin pendant from a charity for five euros and gave a beat up tramp my final five euros change. Bon Voyage people and have a wonderful vintage. I switch off this means of concerning and instead spend the time reposed in On The Road. Byeeee!
No no no. I am surrounded by Hank the ogre and an party of quite pointless hiberians. Why? I thought it was just me and my francophiles; not tedious dutchphon l am fobic of his gaping jaw arrogant loudness. Why did he need to sit next to me and why didn't I move even when he did.
Retiring to bed after four courses of our host and his partners best fayre I can still two floors up still hear that monster's voice. La guerre du! He is an arrogant chin waiting for a blind darkness to be kicked in the fuckthathurts. Over. Nice meal and I love Serge and his honesty. He makes me feel at home even if I asked not to sit with my Celtic cousins and hoped to remain unhanked ...
I didn't judge but retired as early as Serge wouldn't seem badly of baldy eye. To bed with BRA! To speak to my sister and be happier within and without.
Why just retirees? Have the young forgotten their feet in a consumer dust? All teettoring on the gulf of cracked tooth and forked tongue wag. No matter what I say, and how close to pronouncement, I am sounding more like the French Policeman in Allo! Allo!
Fucking dick Hank! Good riddence to appallingly arrogant man. Yet au revoir to Serge; a splendid homme! I spoke to my Irish cousins no more; carrying the hopes of disappointment on their furlocks and moist hiberian palms.
A road to nowhere
Bought petit fraise, €2, figue and banane sans moisture, €8. The Moroccan crook wanted €10 for 100 grammes of dried banane and fig. C'est la swindler!
With a change of pace becomes a change of place and change of pleasure: hello Edinburgh University persons! Bonjour pretty journey femme heading to teach in Italia.
Rant to university boyo from Leicester via NUT and Edinburgh History degree over. Jump on another train before the day of rain commences. Thunderstorms await in Montepellier ... Splish Splash; Shock and awe.
Thought they were of the first class creature variety; inner tone maybe in pocket perhaps non!
'Mon Couq has a blockage.'
'Hello Ruth.'
Most amazing Winchester fayre. The petit dejourner of the first leg of the tourist trip. We talked and walked and coffeed and parted a carriage apart on the TGV. Her eight me seven. I wish to meet her again if there is any chance for us to say salut once more.
A swift grand/petit café noir and I'm raring to reach the Saint Sebastian Relais for this hopeful week. It is good; even if a French chavette would move not to allow me the aisle seat. I couldn't care for the change of mood the journey could become post Ruth hast. Happiness from neuf to onse will remain happiness before apres midi!
Have a southporter for me! Just meet a Winchester lovely; lovely. Best two hours of ever. Between sunrise and sunset!
Fraise and eau to bring on the future and turn to tonnes of tuneage to complete this ensemble! Smiling dried banane exhaust the path tracking down the rungs and a flat landscape filled with clenched fist clouds. I care less as I observed the sunshine of her face today. A cave could not occlude her visage from my eyes; my eyes have seen her.
Red stained fingers stack against sulfur bright fugue fugue figue. Turning to Spotify a bon Deerhunter - Monomania.
Summer sounds feeding my ego free mind that is guided by right thumb thrusts; repetition.
Delta to the Bay; right through the Plans. Not quite, but on my right Carcassonne. The viability and ventures of my right hand view suggests the other route I go: depths of greys beyond the legumes and greens and vines there on. As a rain falleth east to west our carriage ripping up muddy miles; hoe! Arles we go? One stop is Nabonne and an hour from stopping to investigate Montpellier.
Around half an hour of distinctly unfree uncaring travel left. Just get me there so I can jump and blow and single out. Time is for me free to plunder plucking strings and jazz bar jives.
As the distances stretch behind me and the zip zip zip gets closer spaced I am finally in the bored place. Twelve more minutes in waiting to jump off this painfully solitary journey; one coach might be one league and then some. I watching time turning over and expect to be drenched, refreshed and no longer fatigued.
Arrived and its rain once more! I mired missed the time :: previous I am to three hours. Rest to await the rain to hang five. It flows in torrents. I will fetch a poncho regardless as this kind of rain probably falls on my waterlogged pate and sack au Spain? Food for an available hour my hymn it is at the base of Saint Roch Chapelle, in town Montpellier. My stomach pains me from overdose of North African fayre and now I pay for my €2 barter.
Carpaccio of boeuf not in Saint Mawes but sat outside le Chapelle Saint Roch. The wine list? Trentino beckoned me then; in France stick to belle acidité Viognier, Domaine de Virginie. And canard completed a the retour de la violence politique and Trestanton.
The rain falls and I already wish to forget it. I am looking forward to seeing the English guys but in the Orchis there is another zombie eyed news channel doing the same empty 15 minute advert plug and densely empty smothering prometheus of expectant feelingless faces.
Merry French revellers, Spanish bongo drummers p/assing the windows and such clacking thunder of snores: in Montpellier I sleep in an ancient pilgrimage halt for a night but most of the noises kept me alive in that dark. Even at six this morning people verily singing and shouting as they travel back to where-ever they live. But so inconsiderate at dawn to call so vigorously. The young do not know what happens around them; just between their ears and legs. I was never a carosering choruser. Oh snores of fin.
The destraction to destruct all notions of sleep on this Sunday morning. I don't have to quit this donativo at all until ten. Back to struggle with sleep a while, I feel, now the partiers have vanished and the snorer will awake soon. I retired again but the death rattle of magpies kept this away. Eventually I turned over and all the beds were vacant and the sky shone through my unshuttered windows. Rise and attend to petit dejourner somewhere.
I hung out for a few halves before returning via Saint Roch later. As a consequence of meeting Neil from San Francisco earlier I popped in the Irish pub next to decommissioned Saint Anne. I thought he'd said he worked therein, but he was not to be seen. I justified this particular approach of mine, I rarely ever entertain 'Irish' themed pubs because they are always faux Irish; same as British pubs: and why would you leave your landscape to paper all your visits with the very same bland woodchip? I normally vector straight back the way I came, but Neil had enticed me like a cunning red fox to this den of doubly reenforced pricing: €7.20 for a pint of Guinness! I am not that sort of genius. I got burnt for sure. It's all I had in my pockets. Another unconnected American tried to justify the price due to the weakness of the pound! Bollocks I said. That ain't nothing but faux Irish greed! That moment of low fall will sit in my mind linked to all monsterous acts of infamy man played upon his fellow man!
So this is le place de la comedie; wind and rain on the agenda. But first Caffe Noir grand if you please. Accordian player accompanied by terrible James Last drum machine. Refreshingly bad. Le Café Riche on a drenching day between fleeting clouds and badly timed discordant musician and humourlessly €3 a petit café créme. Just one more day of commercial nihilism. Monday to the beach to camp out of this crowded crime.
After a promenade amongst the livre stalls vending authors handicrafts: stylish typesettings and such. I arrived at Fata Morgana whose simple clean styles appealled most to my inner inclination for my discussions to be writ large and forever.
Appalled by the expense of the prices of a plot of simple soil to pitch my sleep for the nights to come I have travelled beyond the suburbs along a tramway and highway out to le plage and my first view of the Meditterean since 2010.
Visited the coast walked from the east of Carnan Plage, some sardines and other nice diner after two. Missed a bus back to Montpellier so necessary to wait in this resort. The camping site was 18€ including tax per night which feels like cripes! extortion when the only real option is the Auberge Jeunesse. Nice area for a day on the beach, but hardly aimed at the pélerin sort. Back at the youth hostel and I'll hang around here while Glenn etc are in town then I will sort out transport to Pamplona to get back on the Camino. France is simply too expensive to hang about between Cahors and Saint Jean Pied du Pont. An amazing dry Muscat sec Le Pot VdP cleansed those fishinesses clear away! House wine tres bon too.
It is a good job that friends are coming here tomorrow. I think I would freak at this city very soon. It's alright if you're seriously plugged into the matrix, but I was in Cahors becoming more less and less more. The brain doesn't need this town. It's just too Leeds. Party is not the Way.
Very much the end of one adventure and now Sunday I await the start of the extravaganza of Montepellier with friends. Today my happiness of Cahors has waned; this might just be an accumulation of lack of sleep and constant traveling, doing and being. I'm sure it is temporary like the brief thunder storm. I don't feel like engaging so much. I'm definitely more tired than required. My eyes are really dry; a change of lens might be a need. I'm more than a month into this pair. Off to bed. Eyes out. Shower on the morrow. Up and at them. Basic end of day: cheap urban Kebab.
Monday morning torrential rain until 3am, binmen at 5am and street cleaners at 7am. Hi Montpellier I am awake and wondering what happened to nothing?
Put on your morning shoes; dancing shoes, it's good for you. Good morning. In France there isn't any such thing as a good morning. Bon Matins is not a concept. The changing aspects are not reflected in the morning. Day break I have my fast of cafe, confiture and pain: the repeat of the everyday man.
I am le chatty man. Not an Alan Carr twatty man syndrome merci! Third cup of cafe/choco and really I still feel a little indistinct. I'm pushing my self to fratenise but don't really have the feeling for it.
A youngster with Nike Air Jordan's Marke trois hasn't the history of them in his stride. Is it a fault of the older generation's grinding teeth when they see the lack of a subculture that hasn't been assimilated into corporate face/off empty eyed mouthing? There is no struggle amongst the urban classes anymore; just the dread of a zombied trance. Is that what a maul full of undead unread is really saying about the mass society: oh lets all clap!
I've had one night of a youth hostel and it might be just one period too much. There is the chance I'll return dreadfully pissed, throw up and be violent to myself without thought.
Mica from Hamburg and Chantal from Berne helpfully proved that it was not me it was the strangling Auberge du Jeunesse ruining my. So I Fled to better strands. Choice. 22€ for appalling Hostel. 18€ for distant campsite. Or €30 for a private room on my favourite Chateau - rue Cheval Blanc! Bring on those boys!
That's definitely an improvement and I would give the Jeunesse a very low score. Dispassionate staff in ordinary clothing, a very thread bare and ragged environment. Feeling un appealing to new comers. I felt for all the other 7 in this 9 bed dorm for having to stay longer! It didn't endorse Montpellier. Majestic is simple but clean and ideal. Only got space for two days so hang France. I'm heading for Spain the first opportunity: Samuel was a helpful guy who might be able to give me a deal if I stay longer ... Go for now relaxed and reached a place to retire away from what was dog shit alley Hosteling International lacks a dynamic of back packers or benevole or donativo.
Food. Shop. Figs, compot du pomme and pruneaux. The best option to encourage me back on the Camino for sure. Reminding me of being brave and walking forever without sight of another soul. Just me and my matter.
Montpellier might be meaningless to my simple self, I can feel the barbaric me trying to clamber passed into me. Begone devil. The rain has evaporated and it's a wonderful afternoon listening to sing song French while my Galette Complete is placed before my greedy mouth! I live for a proper Breton Galette; they can be welcomed in and set a fire to the Camino of your soul. Common food definitely gives to me all the nutrition until fair galant Glenn arrives. Finish with hummus in Le Salidou au rue du Fg de la Saunerie ... I would recommend this tract: Gambetta before Place de la Un-Comedie! Food is meant to reward us in our declining passions.
The middle of the day is stripped bare and taken apart from the tedium of earning a slight crust. I think the long break, from noon until 2:30, allows a productivity for the French majority; traipsing in and out of their domains. I return for a siesta in the solace of my chamber: room 14 third floor, Majestic Hotel, as the skies rapidly alter. Grey coming from the east to the west with the potential to annotate the streets with excited hands.
Trust is a funny thing. I came to this city not for me, for Glenn, but also because I felt lonely and needed a good Yorkshire voice to help me on my Way. Nothing real came of Montpellier so I am quite smashed and wondering how I was brought here without self control. Some dangle of a nice rope played tricks around my face bringing me south east and never south west of France after Cahors.
No matter. Wednesday I will head west away with the sunrise. Some options are Perpignan, Toulouse or Barcelona. Or further west Bayonne or Biarritz. I'm beginning to feel Perpignan as I really don't want to be in Barcelona or Toulouse, but it is a reasonable distance towards Pamplona.
The old me maybe would let the negativity of yesterday play tricks with me today. But something great comes of flipping with the ready formed road west. Wow Glenn u needed to have a break for yourself? Instead you have a nightmare during the day.
Wow another guy who I see as a mistake of behaviour: Matthew arrived in Hotel Majestic with a chaotic woman from Austria. I am glad the rooms are individual and not communal. I told him I was on a pilgrimage and he said 'are you religious' because this must be the only reason you would walk this way?
The Russian honeys are leaving for Nîmes Nice or nowhere. With weak hand shake they depart. I'm hung over and want to grunt. Good morning Non-Pellier; looks like I'm being broadcast for a TV show. I do choose them. M6 Capital. Coffee and a sarnie.
Perpignan it is then. Sounds like a romantic city. A girl is travelling from Grenoble to Perpignan. If that fails then internal local regional train. No more expensive TGV.
Last night's failures have inspired me not to dwell and saved me money as I had expected to be here until the 17th. Glenn's girlfriend's family saved my sorry ass from rectitude and more commercial solitude. I'll pack and eat at the Duck place In Duck We Trust. I'll take the wine and spread the love I have for Cahors in snarlingly crap Non-Pellier.
No thoughts are neutral. My happiness is still a bad thing. All thoughts are damaging. There should be an absence of thoughts when I hear them arising in my mind.
Home Coffee is a snippet of American commercislism plying it's trade inside another vulgar monster. I've just moved from the TV camera. Another thing that is also meaningless. What does all this rotten interviewing say of the limited viewer and realm of fiction bouncing around a cathode ray tube or lcd display. Fire off. Clap your clapper in your noses. Oh it will increase the limited visage of your face.
Montpellier has been a challenge really. I can feel nothing but relief when I catch the first cheap vehicle out of here. I'm sat beneath the opera house looking along the M square and it somehow feels dirty, messy or frantic. A lot of crazy drunken fools tumble passed absorbed groups of German tourists. Plug them in or wind their mechanism and see a merry mental dance. After a lentil salad, bananas and 75cl of eau naturale I'm thinking a return to the Majestic to shower and change and perhaps forget the forceful masses undone in Place de la Comedie. The price of everything skints and ain't no joke.
The joke I suppose is on me for letting something meaningless pull my feet away from the solace and happiness of moving ever away from the pain such places as Montpellier represent. I returned to the Hotel realised Spain is only a couple of hours south. I'm sodding off to Girona. I return to sweet simple peaceful city. With sweat pouring down my brow I place my items as neatly within the rucksack
..
Earlier I returned at least 750g of books to the UK snail mail. Le Poste wanted me to pay 10€ for a priority service and had no envelopes for surface mail. With helpful advice from the Lovely liberty design lady I find Gilbert an brilliantly cheap option. 3€50 to despatch at the La Poste conveniently placed opposite. Still have the bottle of Altesse Chardonnay to enjoy with some food once I hit positivity in Spain. Sorry to be so hard on Montpellier, there was a time I would've loved socking it to you: but let's just say I've altered and nolonger need the decedant high streets. I found a shirt to recall the times of 2013. You must have something to recall all the times, bad or good, but it must be random, cheap or expensive is irrelevant; transistional.
I detoured to the Gare Saint Roch to without France early Wednesday morning. I can hear manana shouting my name. Oh Girona! Legendary city. Never thought I would return that way again. From there there are a couple of options to move forward and bring the pilgrimage back within touching point.
It will be much hotter walking across Spain so anything that can reduce the burden of the several hundred kilometres. The walking will need to begin earlier or be broken up regularly to keep my energy levels high and a lot of my stuff will need to return somewhere. I wonder whom I'll see in Puente?
I haven't been inspired into the poetic moi since I degusted from Cahors via Ruth. I noticed my writing is a little laboured and contrite. Added to this dissatisfaction I can't seem to keep far from the toilet here in Montpellier and I also came back via that McDonald's on the Funny Place. You can tell you run out of options when a cheap burger joint becomes the only places to go! The duck place ain't open until Wednesday evening.
Przybylski Gala.
14 rue de la fontaine.
'Ô Reines'
Adoration!
Straight ahead after two glasses of bone dry blanc and as I can't walk by a crepery another bored bite to eat. Finished now. Polished off with a small carafe of Breton dry cider. Le Phare Saint Roch. Good place. Simple but elegant. Bonne Nuit.
The noises. I retired before 9 last night and was left to accommodate a gaggle of giggling girls tittering in french laughter, but then! Monster of the deep at around four someone violently screaming, shouting and banging something: a door or shutter; thud thud thud. Le insanity of large cities. Someone festering while I was left to sweat on this morning. Well I am up and completely away with a café noir two sugars and pain compagne/pays. Bye bye Montpellier.
If I get the chance to return to France in the future I will start from Estaing and continue the Way uninterrupted, but watch out for the cities: you get burned. Left to find café and pain. Was €20 Now €13.50! Sacred Blue! Finally I've left something behind. My first loss of the trip in a city I felt seldom seen: my right flask! Balls. More outlay from commercial France. The closer I get to the gravity of a city the less I am in control of my destiny as so much challenges any want I had. Now to hope I leave on the train to Cartagena, clipping Girona, semi ready? Can't even have a joke with a femme without it being thought of as an error. She dropped a fag, which I didn't see, I saw her pick one off the floor like a tramp and I tried to tell her she was not the kind of tramp you normally see vagrant and picking up tab ends in stations: she comprend nes pas and threw away her twist. Now she returned to ask me if I wanted to have a photo taken? No. Now she understands. Like a lovers we make up and she visits her Docteur in Paris to formulate her Thesis.
Where did the French Gare decide to put the signs to F voie hidden amongst the broken down part of this greasy and distrustful stain? Finally I find my carriage with little time to spare. Well that was a long drawn out and unexciting place. So Glenn I will see you in September, but I hope you find peace before then? This is where my mental gears slip from hardly any French to Spanish, which I get better, but for an ear hitched towards Latin romance tilted. France begrudges Spain any focus and holds its Roman nose aloft.
Lesson Une: don't think about buying anything near to a station it traps the flying kind with its Venus mouthing parts. Two minutes left. I must've bumped my head in the night as I have one bump forming a singular horn. Right of centre: no unicorn am I. We leave Gare Saint Roch.
I leave my seat to follow the trail of Espanyol to the buffet car to break up the moment. Blue sky shines down as we pull into Beziers and I take a chance on café sin leche con gas and agua minerale. Sinking my gnashers into bread I say ollA to Monserret le femme. Nice to sit bonfide alongside and at ease. The distilled Montpellier has been dilutted and watered down debased and clipped; firm to state I liked it non!
Rattling to Narbonnne la Region Languedoc Roussillon we are beneath the simple blue skies. Some sporadic clouds are banked along the mountains filling the northern horizons. Quai Une beyond and Transcereales. An old lady unable to decide where to sink to die; sit down! And some hydrolic means fighting for escape admist a serenade of flamenco guitar folk. Time for headphones and spotify methinks.
The colours of summer spread alongside the ripples of an inland sea Étang while omnipotent sits a nuclear fission fusion facility. A train swaying delivering another sense. While a snow capped pyrenees sits highly thrown and frowningly white. Is this the first mountain my eyes have seen parallel to the first skies.
Moved forward to the space 4c. 8c is too noisy. The piston plunge of that shafted hydrolic lisp drove me further away and an English gal half planking got a giggle. Pic du Canigou.
Ten am and the train crowds up at Figures the border is crossed with the skies, sea and the pyrenees.
Pauline of DC. Via Nigeria. Finchley North London. Swift kiss and then oh Girona! French girls are too mentally superior, excepting Gala. I am happy to spread my cheeks to fart at Montpellier while my cheeks part to smile miles for mon Girona.
Spain
Coca Cola Light next to the University of Girona. I feel invigorated and some fear vanished. From Campus the pulse of Men At Work on a bright spring apres midi. One day becomes two and then another train to Pamplona. Never miss this jewelled city where puta is the first word that escaped my lips in Equity Point a kin of Gothic Point. Is where the stress of Montpellier might vanish in the wake of a migraine. Funny that my brain is shattered by happiness in this hopeful place. Figeac + Cahors - Montpellier + Girona is still a marvelous two zip to the truth.
Funnily I really can't recall the place feeling so insanely beneficial. Something else which has changed. It is true I never looked elsewhere than me and I suppose a limit of the circumstances and my ignorance of age prevented me peeling back my eyelids further than the slight hooks they'd become working at Coors. It is better to be now.
From the coat of the sleeping blessed virgin/vestit de la mare de éu adormida vestry of cloister Porta de Sant Miquel (c1529),
DOM
PRO ÑEPOTIBVS LL MI
DOMINI EPISCOPI
PONTICH ET CA
NONICI DRIS SVL
PITII PONTICH~
QVI ABOUT DIE 10
JVL IJ 1738
Or to chose that jamon pata negra this is a Great city. Walked round the amazing cathedral and passed obvious salesmen on las ramblas flogging shit food to stupid tourist. Porcus Spanish food is so much more spiritual than French. Sorry guys! It's real and red. From gaxpacho to chirixo to tomatox. I felt I deserved that extravagant wine and food a thon. But I enquired after via Naza where a pilgrim who has fallen by the wayside but is knowing it is coming again by Friday. I have yet to meet the wayside man who provides water and sanguine oranges for my dusty throat. Not the same as elegantly packaging it. More packets of pasta than plates of jamon. Porcus is a necessary stop once.
I have too much beard for hot weather it is making the difference. Not untrue to say I'm substituting food for walking. Frugality has vanished with the resulting opulence of my surroundings. The combination is providing more timber. I'm three days from Puente del Reina and am beginning to feel how I did at Conques. I have moments of belief with moments of fear. It might be real tiredness providing a emotional backdrop. My original satisfaction is being dominated by a substantial loneliness I seldom felt on the Aubrac, against my physical backdrop. That was why I went all the way to Montpellier: I am ruminating and it is nothing. I should remember it is meaningless.
I returned from a walk to connect with the Polish couple before they go to eat on their final day of this erstwhile Iberian adventure. On facebook I added the lady I met on the train between Perpignan and Girona. Poor thing was shattered from an overnight battle of trains and young persons. iberia airlines run a budget airline from Santiago and so do Ryanair. Milan is an option, but I hope my pilgrimage will conclude in Saint Peter's Square.
Heavy things have clearly got to go. A slow packet to the UK. Jeans, Jumpers, etc. Thought about a pair of shorts but I might just survive with what I have clearly? I could cut the lowe alpine trousers back to the knees or thigh.
I haven't been to Girona before. I must've seen a minute percentage in 2004. I certainly had too much on my whistling little mind; again; but that was the first crisis; my theory my life is cycles of exploration. I conclude that I can accept 99% of the crap if only occasionally I live uniquely just extra placentally. Another square like Plaça Real Barri Gotic: Plaça de la Independencia. Charming Rosita Original(5.5%) Tarragona. Made uniquely with honey. Blooming eck. Them voices are not mine.
It is a different time, but at some point during the 15th centuries, my antecedents were adventurers, conquistodors or gypsys. My blood is contaminated all through with crimson tides delivering gold, ivory, silk, pepper and people. Trafficking from Cape Cod to Cape York I expect always to find something significantly striking and there for the using. Tonight it is Botifarra de Perol and tomato/garlic bread. Thank you Saint James for putting my feet in this sundre londes.
It's chilled off tonight. It was most hot around five when I was under a volcano considering the devil who lives upon there. The streets were empty for a good reason.
Macebeo is a common grape. The Puglia chef, who was disappearing to Furetventure Majorca explained that must be a Jewish grape as the word was Jewish. He knew so much for a common chef de range; like I he had only been catering a short time.
Mamon Bebe explain loco senorita who you are, were, most becoming in Londres town circa 2008/09, so I can be captivated in a smile and some deep truths. Swallows shoot the free breeze with immature Sparrows deciding on whom to follow. Follow the high wiring activists. Whither go I?
Second, and final regional cervesa, is immensely malty deep and mocha chocolate with hazelnuts beautifully present. Home-made black beer; take a hike Guinness. Alcover hazelnuts are a speciality of Tarragona (www.rosita.cat). An. Other Rosita/Rosetta I shouldn't always associate like thus in my mind. The links are all there to recall the chains I became; yet dealt with on my dark passage through Wetherby. This beer is brilliant. I think the Chardonnay may have to wait again!
So walking back from a number of truly great Catalan gentlemen. Viva la Girona. Tomorrow sort out my way. I can see why this might be the happiest city in Spain: josef and antonio. Is Spain like a family who really fell out with one another? The crunch has got hurt if it rips a county apart.
Spain/Catalunya I love you.
Woke up with the departure of the friendly happy Polish couple at 5am and bravado of a screaming drunk in the Girona early morning dusk. Time for breakfast and my eyes and ears to blown away by the anger inherent in the world currently. 24hr news is absolutely the most depressing symtom of the modern world. Whether is comes across in Catalans or Spanish or English or French it is a fundamental wrong of our society. I wonder what really happens in this world that isn't coordinated for interplay of media. There ain't no such need for a travel report; that man's brains were running from his ears!
Sonar in Barcelona. There was once a time I was desperate to attend there, miss kittin et al. Puente la Reina has more ability to appeal to me. People are detached this morning; except Naza. Insular Japanese and fragmented man. The sun is always shining perhaps they forget?
Met Edward on the terrace of the hostel last night. He's off on his bike third day running; to us both England is waning and Europe is more real than Euro Sceptics would have us believe?
0% sucre! Brilliant you get to eat toxic chemicals instead of sugar? How about I stab nine inch nails in my eyes?
Naza changed the dynamic she is a great hostess, but the scissor sisters? No! Hell NO! 24hr news or Scissor Sisters; your snip.
Vueling or Ryanair after? Is Emeli Sande a Yazz of the 21st century? Lots of questions. Very few answers. This is the 21st century at it's least true. Shakira has only one voice and a pitbull? I couldn't hate modern culture more. I was closer to stillness and the answer pumping my lungs and being frozen beyond senses and drenched like the people noah left behind; he was cruel as he never returned for anyone else but let them perish in his arrogance; and he put animals before humanity.
Modern cities never get finished; there isn't a clear path for them. They grapple for immortality but are singed to a ball to be stripped of any universality before midnight. What happened in the bronze age and dark ages maybe occurring to our age?
I return to cabin fever Jane and freedom rock. A few twists and turns between Plaça and Estacion; some difficulty with paying with my various borrowing means, but only one more day away from death apealling distraction. Quintessential world why do you not appeal to me at all? I thought my feet smelled but it is the youthful Spainyd crunching cornflakes in his wake. Not delicate. Chef guy leaves for Mahon and I go to wash.
Girona, you took my glasses! An exchange of goods. My sun glasses; Ray-Ban's roadsters. Gone this morning. I packed up again. More needs washing than is for wearing; I dug out my shorts, worn, and shirt, clean. If they weren't from prior to cornwall 2010 I would be maybe aggreived a little, but they're not essential. What did we do in the sun before shades? A hat. Slip Slop Slap; no mention of sunnies on channel nine! The Polish girl left a facial scrub that my pores were screaming at me to use! My face is polished up a sheen.
Dolce Cafè for an espresso that is so thick my spoon defies logic! It's another blue skies day in the heart of Girona. The bustle under the cover of these arched, covered, side walks. All Spain hides before the sun paralyzed open spaces and a Catalan flag hangs sagging nonchalantly in a suggestion of a breeze.
With selfless suggestion I set two Canadian darlings feet on the road to Sitges and Sonar free Spain. They flee south and weighed down Finlander took a troubled turn north and I tried to warn her away if possible; her head was collapsed inward not onward. Tomorrow I disappear before Helios reaches his zenith!
Hey Daniel you are a beardy weirdy. It's strikingly obvious! But I have a bolt breaking from my temple; stage right like Richard the Third I have a hunch I suppose. Kava clicks in! My food mission is to provide something substantial but from Supermercardo.
The modern world is flipping me crazy and making me forget what things I am bringing. Like that time in The Kimberley Klub where I left my only gold ring, sapphire et al, snake eating its tail coiled but to vanish into the Broome interior. Someone somewhere will be looking at that thinking who forgot it and why? But there is no reason.
Then I buy black cherry tomatoes from a vendor; sweet. I return to wash them clean and pleasantly perambulate towards the other Church of Girona I shall visit. On my left I pass Nespresso strangest of all coffee houses. Chomping and consuming them as elevensies; 0.65¢.
I cross the bridge nearest the Sant Felu to the sounds of German and Polish voices to see if grass still grows from the unfinished stone upon; it does. Swarms of million midges cross the bridge with the tones from the east. To me the churches are not exhibits of a past world but a living and breathing part of now. The tourist amber has arrived to explain away any personal conceptions of the purpose of the focal transit. Before religion there was God. Before this church there was still a reason to reside here a while. With 1€01¢ I conclude my mission to come here again. I fear Girona is beyond help of sinking beneath the feet of a tribal trance. Left turn after beacon bright German lasses and come away purple virtues figues, around three inches, to cleanse my soul in water still in Saint Felix font and faucet running to wash figs on Carrer de L'Argenteria. Thank you for this different direction today. The clear yet bright way is back within me. I turn a corner and see the end of IT in sight: chuggers/charity muggers.
Between an alfresco afternoon tapas and wine those boomerang Ray-Ban's returned. Knew I shouldn't fret! If my water bottle could come south of its own motivation I would be complete again! Self made is often ideal, but I am unable to make this of myself. For a tetra prisma Solfrío Gazpacho bring it on! Better than any restaurants made option in the UK. There is a tension between the tomato, bread and olive oil which could make a bleeding Mary?
So I popped the cork on the terminal Cahors vin and the last alcohol to touch my lips prior to the next walking section of the pilgrimage. Then a siesta for fragmentation. Woken by Harley Davidson screaming up Ginesta at 5pm. It drags to have the afternoon under the volcano broken by such an arrogant machine. The other thirds of the vin I hope to share out in equal measurements. Some angry Spanish TV opera plays out over the heads of those of us truly detached from another reality.
I checked the forecast for Puente la Reina and cloudy and 19 is superior to 31 and azure! Could I physically walk under the sky with a sun beating down forever? Some thing obvious says no!
The Italian chef leaves for Spanish Balearics and departs his food deposited for me. So another night al fresco as the sun sinks on the Costas. He's going to sleep in the aeroport awaiting his transit; internal flight a 7am. I wish him success. He managed to sneak a sleep from the helpful receptionists. Quick wander around the block to the Mercat Municipal. Tonight I'll buy my combustibles for yonder venture.
Gosh those blue eyes and another stunning shoulder. If I cared about you-know-what, but it all feels like far too much effort. Not like the last time I left England for an extended period some years ago. I like the beauty but I have resigned myself to being a quite solitary man.
The Altesse 2011 Chardonnay has been consumed and so the episode beginning in Cahors is truly over. Again I am on the pilgrimage; Thursday 15th June, but its memory will sing me to sleep. Edward the English cyclist is still in Girona to enjoy pinchos and cervesa for another week. My last drink today was a fruity shandy in Porcus.
Thank you transitional Girona for not quite disappearing into the tourist vacuum until I have left touching the places twice in my seldom life.
Camino Frances
Another crazy night of booming voices, late arrivals and plenty of stomping feet; mopeds and motorbikes scretching; guitars wailing, gulls foiling; car alarms bawling; Spanish hombres singing, shouting and slagging; me flailing the dark! This ain't no place to be able to sleep through the chorus and awaken raring to take my seat; plaça catalunya. Wil.I.am and Justin Bieber 7am Girona oh yeah! I'm sat as far as I could get. Why is it so mono and unreal. Katie Perry: I'm taking my stuff and going. My pelerin pendant has vanished and I almost in my haste left no. 2 flask. Who is it writes and produces such dreadfully awful and empty popular music? It is so bad and evil that we're being subjected to either 24hr terror on the airwaves or transmission in one corner or 24hrs mindlessly unmusical frantic gibberish. I depart as soon as I consume a watery coffee and confide to the night security man how insane the music would make me. As soon as I can take it I leave to journey towards my next destination. If I need walk some 500 kilometres what rate with the effort and the perspiration can I expect. Girona station is clean and cool and expectant; forty minutes to ponder the missing pendant. It is meaningless and just another thought that is an necessary concern. I'm hearing my other voice! The anger it pursuades me to ponder and project. No worries. Barcelona Sants next stop 8:10. The fm radio plays the look of love: the look of lust? Under those trees? Uno douo Tres. Control points to take me to a vast cathedral of a building housing platforms 13, 11, 12 and 14, left to right. A blank canvas; this must've been expensive to build. Every word I expect duplicate for Spanish and Catalan: which still sounds almost Spanish. If the Geordie nation rose would we bi-wire our stations too? A high speed train to Barcelona, continuing on to Madrid. I asked for the cheapest option which I'm sure AVE isn't? Away from the train of a thousand blankeyed stare or impossibly minor frown. Passing through Estacion Sants and feeling a full neck unreal. Forgotten earring on the marbled floor. Another queue for access control; it is crazy world in all its finery. At 2€80 for red bull I almost forgot! I hastely returned to the fridge. Something rotten, unfeeling and greedy inhabits the places we have to form into queues to be controlled. My card didn't go through which was a mighty relief. Some vaguely Celtic music is pumped into coche 7. I'm in coche 6. But I managed to walk passed it without realising. It seems what's displayed on the exterior of the train isn't what is on the interior. While we travel west I listen to an old classic - Half Man Half Biscuit/Back In The DHSS; doesn't suit the landscape but does my mood. There is something essential about Trumpton Riots leaving Lledia. Seven is Six. We're still lacking a proper transformer; it was a dodgy transformer. This journey is longer than any I've had so far. I'm very removed from the pace of the first leg. Ahead of me I have two thirds and I am ready to begin the trail again. Useful to know that one jar of lentils and a packet of chorizo satisfied me for less than €2. Now coming to Pamplona; no map, no guide, no where to stay and not a euro left. Today I spent nothing so far and probably no more than a €8 yesterday. Need to get straight to puente la reina by a simple means. There is probably also a church in Pamplona that will set my feet upon the correct path: first option.
Stepped off the train and took the scenic route to the pilgrim stop before the cathedral. A local man in not one word of English delivered to my nights accommodation Jesus Y Maria. A superb 120 bed locale with many anglophonic voices. Showered after the long boring, tedious and absent train journey. Seven euros. Many fingered Bayern keys a Bach fugue to help us souls unwind and untie the knots of sleeplessness. First I heard him inI the distance calling to help us through what had begun to pain. I've come along the way. It was a dramatically hot traipse to find a little shadow from the huge sweats I was drenched.
I'm really feeling very bloated. Something I have eaten is passing through me like wind. It might be all the fruit I ate in Girona making its presense felt? Tomato overdose. That's me for the evening. Up and away early. Eat on the hoof. Beat the sun to residence at Puente la Reina. Some guy said it took him 28 days to do this part which would be around double the time I walked from Puy en Velay.
Going to forget this today. I need to read and tear myself away from it!
In Pamplona we're in four rows, 2 deep on either side of what was once a church, couple of doors down from the main Cathedral. You are assigned a bed in order and once there are no more beds? Keep walking. There are 28 beds in 14 bunks on this right wing and the same is repeated above me and on the left hand side; roughly 120 beds. Plenty of space in a cloistered space to dry clothes. Jesus Y Maria.
The people I've briefly spoken to are a variety of ethnicities, and the age group stretches further too. My wind is not really in my sails today so I've planned what I'm wearing tomorrow, but I don't feel alive or vital yet. I listened to the Bayern master pianist without really caring what he was playing, or how well. I thought he'd said he was from Bolivia not Bavaria. I am off. Switched off. My stomach sighing is concerning me as this is a community dorm and I can't go letting off steam without a few sour looks. It seems perfectly reasonable for me to go the John to let her rip?
Finished the day with The Smiths/Meat Is Murder - remastered. The Japanese gentleman in the bed next to me looks to be struggling to come to terms with what he has discovered in Pamplona so plays on his hand console. Cheers Morrissey for reminding me why I shouldn't be eating all this Jamon!
...
Hola¡ it was perfect. Set off at 6:30am to reach the way. After a few challenging miles I realised my other mind had been uncovered again. There is always the road to help you to be relieved. Leaving the hostel with Liz from Minesota we started the day before any sign that the city had set up to way-lay pilgrims. We motored as they had opened their left eye and yawned returning to a magic slumber.
We each have our manner of celebrating arrival; mine to compose. I hear the sweet flute/pipe music composed to give joy to us. Coming from an Irish heart so true. I left my soliloquy as Coleridge did his. But my ventricle was being tugged by another fugue.
Oh the laugh of coming down a mountain, blown by mother nature's zephyr and the diet I am on returning more of the sulfur urgently back over the Pyranees to blow preemptive collapsing the other me in a mustard yellowed death.
House of the Rising Sun at hotel rural Bidean where two euros gets you an eatery worth any amount of early morning break free. Tortilla and cervesa. I am back in the passion. I was tempted and quested a while. I was not broken. Here in Puente la Reina I hear canaries to absolve my doubts. Playing us a sequined dance beyond its very size.
Again I connected with my Huckleberry from on the top of Sierra de Erreneiga. To have his free love unrestricted and unrestrained is a foe never to challenge nor question. Have patience gentle soul; though I be far away ... I still think of you every day.
Spain is closed for all of this afternoon and Sunday. Ready for another day on this road from 6am ;-).
Cerveza from a vending machine: a buck? Nice idea! San Miguel not so hot, but it is ok? Sat in the Jardin with Seanan playing scales; or is that another person? Cathal reads Mort in the sun and I have another blister on the same toe as on the Aubrac. Nana stretches her left leg in the shade. A couple of hours and I'm tired, but maybe also full of gay fever. Yep. My nose is gay, my eyes are gay and my throat is gayer too. Listening to the auberge I'm wakened from my drifting via Australian voices. Which is damn odd. I feel a kin of that voice. New Zealand too.
A homeless man I rewrite his worth. I substitute on for at. He lives 'on' the street ... What arrogance. Now he knows where he lives on Inglasis. Drops his pencil in the gutter. Drunk as a Skunk.
I think of all the ciders outside of the West Country Asturias is closest. Good truth. Apples. Sour. Cloudy.
Off back to sleep well. Really great being back on the way.
...
Mad Spaniards coming into the only place to get a coffee fix prior to 7am. I had an espresso I couldn't pay for. So I didn't. I fled as fast as my pack would allow, ducking into a ATM at Santander. The way was fairly gentle to begin, but eventually the random cobbled and dusty track, the distance and the time of day began to wear heavily. Usual bananas on the hoof and a stop for Coffee and Tortillas and you keep going if you want the race to be over by noon. Now in aubergue municipal Estella and time for that washing to be processed and time to flake out!
I thought I was flying when up ahead are the same Irish couple had already reached Lorca: where I had to stop for a couple of moments. Once I set off again for the final 7.5 kilometers my pace was turgid. I stopped to put on my shades and hat; from behind flew another warning. The devil of the Magrade Aubrac come to put me under strain; you'd played your tricks on me before so I hung back perfectly aware of his guile and cunning. None of your conveniently placed traps gave me any troubles. I have suffered you already. Go and chase another one back to hell; I'm on my own and happy to soldier on!
You can't book in advance and the sun bleeds you so it is a race from 6am to get to your bed for the evening. I stopped outside the parish auberge but passed up a donativo for this clean, but eventually busy large refugio.
Snakes in the grass go wild in the country, at around caza de reserva where the frogs were croaking, he passed me and then watched my onwards journey. We bothered each other but briefly. I saw some very old vines just near to the first village after Puente la Reina: Mañeru. I ventured to get groceries in Estella took a turn round the centre and found a bodegas artisanale. Me thinks €8 for old vine garanacha isn't too bad to confirm my feelings. Laderas de Montejurra, Emiliovalerio. Back to consume my unvaried lentil and pea from a can with a carrot of the pickled sort. Je suis le Gourmand, Non? Well the vin rouge knocks panties off all wine since Cahors; nice action Navarra old vine Garanacha. One glass and then a siesta it is 16:04 here but might be 14:04 really. That is what the sundial says. That is what the sun says. That is why it was so hot at ten, eleven and twelve: bastards! European central time fucks with your mind. I'm now overheating and can only wear my gaudi Canadian speedos. Sod the lowering of the tone! I've just walked 3.5kms in escorchio. German sex tourist time? Boo Hoo!
Distinct lack of energy: we're all zapped like tortured flies. Everyone is together alone. Some somnobulant readers, sleepers and I drawing freestyle. Now wolfing down pasas sin pepitas and glass duo of garanacha/ grenache noir. Two danes have heads in fiction. Partneren/Khans Skat. We're all in a trance; bewitched by the croaking and chirping. Adios amigos? Frau hacks at bread with a blunt spoon. We are lack want. None move very quickly if at all; it strikes me it is some opium den.
Quick tour of the ville but even at 7pm it is shouting it is hot; 30°.
Quick hello bueno to two female skinheads from Torino, both femme? One has very bad knees. Everyone has a bad mechanism lazy city walking doesn't require attention to the position of feet, knees and hips. I learnt this in France. All these guys out of Saint Jean Pied Pont are suffering terribly. We walk without marching correctly.
Fini. Got some bananas, prunes, figs and a can of Coke Zero to skip along the Camino by 6:30am. Bed for hayfever remidy and to read. Alarm at 5:45am. Packed and I'll see you tomorrow fellow pilgrims?
Awake upon the merry dawn chorus earlier and before you sleep too much. Looking up the stars still shine as I shoulder my pack and begin this 29 kilometres. 5:45.
Walk before the dawn arrived in the last stop for nine kilometres. Breakfast stop. Wait for the local bar to open for bocodillo and cafe.
I set off with a Spanish lady, French couple and Danish priest. Maybe he's going too fast. I said see you soon. My legs need solace at 700 metres. Between Monjardin and Los Arcos it is an unbroken 9 kilometres. Petit dejourner now until 8:30.
I feel insane! Finally reached Los Archos... That road went on forever. Stopped. Thought of stopping for a while, but the sun wasn't out... Don't chance your luck! So I pick up two huge oranges and a Danone yogurt drink.
From 5.7kms you can see two villages and I sure hope the closer is our bed for today? As it gets closer I feel that the bastards have led me here just to inform me my stop is another few leagues off.
Facking buggered! 1400 at Torres del Rio so too far after yesterday. Not as hot but this is the best tin of garbanzos and cerveza I've ever had! As far as I'm concerned you can take your stinking Camino and stick it ... Until mañana! The cloud has moved in from the north and west since I got Casa Mariela. Come on! RAIN!
Weather has changed. Finally! Rain and grey skies, alternating with sunny spells. Nice small village on a hill side to hang in today. Not in the same brutal expectant for the morrow. Stopping at Logrono - famous for La Rioja. First Cahors now I'm in La Rioja: they'll be no complaints about the wine, however the queso campagna is very average. Must go out of my way to find a special cheese to stick with a robust but yielding vino tinto. What more do you need? Brebis?
Hung about until seven for our pelegrino supper. Three courses, bread, wine and water for only €10. Pleasures of conversations too. Bo, elisa, guy. A dane and two bretons. My broken French is exactly like 'allo 'allo policeman. Not too impressed with the green label Rioja; the lower levels of that wine are using the DOC moniker, but they're not more than vin du table. Rioja needs to re-assert it's expectations and firmly say no the wine calling itself Rioja!
The ball of my left foot feels crushed under the weight of my bag. Let's see what tomorrow brings for a later walk? I've noticed everyone has some injury from their ventures on the way.
The laughter of last night made me realize there has been something missing on the Way since I left Cahors. Frequently you miss the obvious thing, but I think I maybe found some persons with whom to find humour in our adversity. It is not a challenge to walk to Santiago. Too much walking always tests my resolve.
The earth gives and never takes away. We take from the earth but never give.
Today I reduced into tears at 8:44am by Animal Collective and my mood of reflections. I saw curls in the forests upon nether hills.
Do you believe they put a man on the moon drifts to me from yonder workers citroen and I come to Viana. No hurry. Time for a reflex break: lomo, chorizo, figue and naraja. A full flask before the final flat leg in the plane leading to eros and Logonos. I exchange pleasantries with Kristoff from Switzerland. He departs before I finish my fix, I fix my gear and finally flee Viana; vitally.
Final 6.8kms from Viana were tough. Forth day of Camino de Compostella; one hundred clicks down only six hundred to go?
Crossed the final stage with Cho of Seoul. Picked up a new pendant to replace what was forgotten off the path. I've been toying with walking in all white. I'm having my John Lennon/Jesus Harry Christ delusion. From a hello to a friendly chained sorrowful guard doggy to the pelegrino welcome. I am now changed, bocadillo filled and second glass of wine, blanco and a much needed excellent crianza martinez alesanco 2010. 80/20 tempranillo Y garnacha.
I found all the signs said Snap out of tourist aubergue mode. I'm donated to donativo.
Bed. Unwind. Spoke briefly to our volunteer host. She asked me if there was anything I needed. After snoozing, with a heavy downpour filling the ancient streets of Logrono and washing away stress. I find napping on a rainy afternoon doubly engaging.
Elisa and her father have found the bed next to mine for the night. There are a limited number of beds, but there are also a number of matts on the first floor. The bell of the large church sounds down the quarters and the host comes to beckon me for a hot drink and biscuits.
I leave the tranquility of my bed for a table of loud discussions, but I find ease in camomile and 24 tiles depicting the life of Saint Vincent. I know that there is less reason to the Way than I perceive others demanding it be. An American lady wanted to come with me when I went for my sandwich and detour but I wanted to be alone. She seems so intensely loud and wants everyone to hear her stories. Why do I want to end this now. We don't need to fill every silence with speaking. It's like a film contiunally interrupted by commercial breaks. So I am aloof?
Religion is flawed if throughout life you have to continually openly discuss life through a prism divine? Release religion; chose humanity: it is less devisive.
Put on a mac and off to find tapas and sidra. Txili. Manic Americans and Philipinos discussion drives me into the long and directly vertical rains. Trust your feet. Where tomorrow? Decide then. Young Irish pilgrims question why I maintain my need for Tapas so I questioned they haven't tried it. The dormitory is like a barracks, bored on a rainy day. Go out and sample paprika loveliness. First is tripe and black sausage Callos and then Jamon. And out.
Stoned Canadians in a donativo. Elise and Hamish playing chess with playing cards and scrunched up red/white paper. Food smells good. Couldn't find anywhere to purchase wine/cider/beer before passing back through many streets where the rain is persistant.
Not feeling Logrono; too superficial.
Flies flee to Mass and I can not conjugate or conflagrate. Some part of me wanted to help with the food preparation, but I felt mindful of the noises on my mind. I feel like I am in the tower of Babbel; disassociated and I want to scream at myself. Too many cooks. Waiting for the breaking of the bed. What happened to Bo?
The devil is in our midst and he is Canadian. Stoned beyond redemption and suddenly he's the chef de cuisine. I'm hating the way my experience has been altered by one unaware individual. He is meaningless. I must remember that he is meaningless. He has disturbed me twice now. In both large Cities: Pamplona and Logrono. So much I just want to go home. People have played up to his appallingly bad meal. Flavourless and over cooked. Second time I've needed to flee the dinner table at the conclusion of the sweet course. Oh why! Those guys from over the Atlantic must make themselves heard. They're insanely insignificant to Europe.
With a better morning and rice pudding for breakfast I run run run to autobus estacion for to out-distance Peter, Amish and two Americans. thanks to Claire from iglesia de santiago el real for helping me. and also Nicole and Antonio at breakfast for bringing the better feeling back. if I see Peter, Hank or Bernadie again in this life! I realise within the 1% are 99% for whom I am also disenfranchised from. 1% of 1%. I am so so alone. if I see the devils again I will trip them up in their paths; they'll roll in the gutter with all the other forgotten turds; I am arrogant!
San Domingo de la Calzarda then 1.5 kilometres to Grañon will put me away from these bandits. Did this same problem always happen on the way?
Something tells me I should call my mother today.
When I consider the labeling that was occurring and the generalisations that those guys, even a good Catholic lady when condescending to me being an English Anglican; when I am not!
Four Swedish ladies are returning to Malmo/Stockholm via Bilbao. I would prefer the gabble and babbling of foreign tongues to the assaults of a madder tongue spreading like disease from the USA and Canada. Relief! Another day.
The detour to Montpellier has left me £100 out of budget for that misconception. I assumed a donativo would stand me. But now I'm back on the path of refugio donativo my oath is to reach a destiny on the 12th July. I hope Glenn is ok. I wish him happiness until I see him again; one of the too good guys.
Come together 0.01%.
Bus stations are blackened chewing gum and diesel stained places where my eyes see only the dead or the dying. Coffinsare autobuses and undertakers are Drivers. Leaden glass a veil too opaque to long for; immortality in a steel mauselleum. The Usher's sweep away tobacco not roses. My hackney, blackened, arrives a herse to clean away my indifferences.
Another good truth comes of busily busing the distance after those last 4 days walking beyond my skin, teeth and torn muscles.
Jim Broadbent has played the same character three times.
I found my seat, spoke briefly to an Australian father and son, we discussed the forthcoming Ashes, why Aussie cricket is so dire and how the AFL is playing out. Then I got severe motion sickness. It took my until the WC of the cathedral in San Domingo, and vacant retching, to come round.
As fast as I could I turned my feet along the 2hour journey to Grañon.
How to accommodate the crowds? How to be always the few not the many? 0.01%. Many Italia. Beautiful locale which reminds me of the Tours Anglais in Aubrac. But instead of two Frenchmen and I ... Sixty Italians, one Danish, one South African, eighty Spanish and I hear an Israeli? What! I am reminded of the road to calvary by Bruegal. Yes we are all individuals!
A beautiful space but I feel crammed into a low celling and between all the young voices and piano playing adolescents I can't cope. This part of the Camino is too rammed. I must find a way that links me with freedom and existence. I asked if I could sleep in the second overflow and now a way across the road listening:
If 6 was 9. Free. I don't care. 0.01%.
Tried to pay my Orange account, but I am unable. Usual paper self rearing it's head mid to late in the month. One bit of administration for June/July. Hope my family can help me in the UK?
I know I must overcome this feeling of being alone amongst a legion of Pelegrinos. What kind of goal is being lost like a silent voice in the choir of disorganized cacophony.
I am not alone thinking the young 'pelegrino' are crazy. I collected my micro towel. I will breakfast and away. I dreamt a few days ago about JFK coming to visit me and a friend. I tried to warn him of his fate, but he wouldn't listen. This was in Pamplona. It is possible this was a warning to me that my way would become my mental assassination. I should have listened to Serge in Cahors. I understood so little around that table, but word of the road Primativo cropped up every night of the four I camped out. I am not on the Way because of a Movie!
I am laid out on my floor for the night; which is fine, but the music reminds me of Hari Grishnas in the Movie Airplane: clap happy. This is the stuff of insane dreams.
So from crazy Canadian to even crazier Israelies. This is my test. I'm failing too. I had to ask the man to stop playing the discordant piano. It's another day of inescapable noises. I must come across as a bore or a kill joy. I explained I had come on the way to escape noise. He apologized and now they sit around the table rattling off vino tinto. This will be a repeat of last night, but with a piano, a Californian playing a pipe with no tune and dancing without timing. One of the Israelites draws. Better. Contrast inner space with outer. I will do likewise.
It changed. My challenge of the circumstance made this a more fruitful occasion. From a moment of calm drawing reflection to preparation of food for a simple potage and songs from all nations. I sung on Ilkley Moor Bar'tat but could only remember one verse! How disappointing! They said my food was the best on the Camino, but I thought it was too like soup and not enough textures. But then I didn't start it! I just made sure that the chorizo was done properly. Enough wine to sleep for a while.
Eventually I calmed out to the ends of my toes. The Israelis guys were fine once we got into a conversation. People should always be given a second chance. Jesus picked them up in seconds. A taxi delivered them to John the Baptist Auberge. A miracle! We discussed my feeling that I need a quiet peace in my mind and I explained why I felt panicky when arrived and all they did for an hour was play an out of tune honkie tonk Les Dawson esk.
The unorthodox knitting and unity of individuals is what I think the orthodox 0.99% needs. I wish them well. The stamp I have been getting to show my credentials is pride or vanity? This is something I am unsure of. A badge like membership of a supreme society? A get out of jail free card? What is this ritual I see all around me?
It is getting closer to owl stretching time; night John-Boy.
Poorly German girl coughing her lungs up most of the night. I slept fitfully after 4am anyway.
Ever since Cahors a theory has developed I found my freedom in the terrors the way found for me between Puy and Aubrac. Something singular and significantly pastoral.
Just a tidy seventeen kilometres today. Puts me at two stages beyond the Canadian devil. Stopping - Finished for today. Donativo 3 on the bounce. In a wilderness of persons I escaped alive and with wit.
Busy bee. Couple of beers with Daniel from Barcelona; father Liverpool and mother Catalan. After popping to the supermecardo cooked a paella with red peppers, onions, rice, chorizo picante, pancetta, white wine, herbs provence, salt. Sat down with a stick of bread and el coto crianza 2008. Legendary supper. Shared the fayre with 5 others. I hardly know their names. Did a meal unlike Wednesday night. Not lacking depth and textures. Great Vino makes a significant difference.
Helene, one of our hosts, enjoyed the supper while Pierre emphasises the need to donate €7. I was hoping you weren't a vegan and doesn't drink wine. How can I improve on this? I will leave a substantial donativo.
Extreme bump to my head. This happens verily every time I get to a new Auberge/Hostel. Can't be hastled to shower again. It's obsessive for people walking miles sweating constantly. Changed into summer attire as the weather alters to warm with a pleasant breeze. A swarm of school boys comes onroute to the sweet shop. I pass through with Nina before the plot of the movie is lost in translation. Between Daniel and the winebar owner we discuss via Daniel: from Barcelona, the objectivity/subjectivity of wine interpretations. I am blind folded and tested. I found the wine beyond me unamazing but how can you say this when you expect the wine is something very special indeed. Well I thought I had dry white, a light red maybe rosado and another white. Truth is they were all instant blends of white and red. My leaning towards rosado was correct-ish, but I really wasn't thinking that opaquely. None was so significant. I explained that in Britain we are really fortunate to be able to try the whole worlds wines. In La Rioja it is Tinto or Blanco from around these parts. The Rueda Vedajo was still outstanding and this is where my ideal was coming. Mouth full of rocks - Les Silex.
Early to bed after another brilliantly simple supper. Asparagus Blanco and olives in a salad, two small glasses of vino tinto(€1.30 a bottle) table wine. Nina still has the dry dusty cough that repeatedly brings you out of low level sleep. Finally slept until 5am.
Looked about the town in the late afternoon and think the town is like a wheel with spoke like arteties coming to the central hub. Belrado Parish Albergue is a converted theatre; you prepare your supper on the stage and then consume it in the stalls. Loud fairweather Italian Pilgrims in one room. Things are changing in my head. Got this feeling that this pilgrimage is coming to an end with the floods of persons breaking from vents in the crust; I'll hit Burgos then ... See the longest day in Finisterre! Traveler on the A1.
The convictions I have to end it somewhere a conclusion can be made. I dissolved in France and then I am unconnected in Spain with the symbolic and shambolic. I will place my singular tent at the end of the world and watch the sun take all souls to the land of the Valinor; I am the last of the fellowship in Gray Havens. The curtain fell on my journey last night with Daniel: a reflection of what I had decided my pilgrimage meant to me. The clouds hang low and heavy as we come up to the plateau. My mind broke free of these chains. I have the 21st to reach the sea. A final supper. As the mists clear Yorkshire and Europe are behind me now. I will end of On the Road and the end of my world as the dusky sun sinks into the blackened ocean.
I found my way; monomania. Autobus, walk to Plaza Espania. No. 43. Estaciòn FF.CC. Flying through huge Burgos. The man throwing stones at my feet close to Rock has carped and collided kharkis, but will not prevent me finding my own simple end. Two days from a shower and I start to smell my own residue; bring the brine and Jesus Nuñez is a cold saviour. Through tenements and absent blocks; blankly blanketed and blackened columns force me beyond all red lights, crossings and sneakered feet. Bring me away to so distant a Estaciòn. Back in macro molecular blindingly unhappy nowhere station. My wait and journey will cost most of the day. In the middle of the centre completely nowhere. No wifi. No shower. Back to horrible egocentric and monoblocular Burgos to eat, drink and kill time. Shrug my shoulders into the end of grey and barren multi directionless conduit and conceitedly unhelpful adif. Gibberish. Cold welcome. Ticker tape states bienvenidos a la estaciòn "Burgos Rosa de Lima": which without English or eye contact is untrue. So I must wait five minute before it fades away.
Bleeding day for swinging fifty separatists ways. So what was Burgos? Now I am under the steps of ya catedral and looked for post Camino fun. No one knows what is glimpsed by yon travellers. Is there an alt dive for us at the end of someat. My vivid dreams of france are no longer just a mistress. I used to dream with a certain almost reality; I would just accept that like or not I had been half way along that northern coast; along and alone.
I'm I wrong to have played out my first pilgrimage my way? Some have helped me deal post Aubrac; yet most enough not ken? Hello haloed Santiago. I have eaten a lot of canned heat. Tonight, Duncan, I ate calamari from San Xoãn and part took alberino. Dead. And seldom significant. I am off to drink my death tomorrow. Sign off. Nice squid rings too.
Mexicans 3ing a five piece. Musical weekend. I need to see within the catedral. It is some end. All this pinchos and minimal vino. I couldn't be more emotionally lost. Bit of me finds muzak somedays apart.
One o'clock and I am full of rose rouge wondering what to see that saint germain.
Santiago is a trap for the arrogant. This morning I left my apartment of the evening. The previous evening didn't really let me in. A random lady took me to her h'erbergment where I slept still in my secure sleeping bag, €20, I am reminded of the old lady in Split and my grateful slumbers. There is no silence on the street where you find Oficina del Pelegrino. This was not the conclusion I had thought I expected. Some things are simply too good to be true. Once my credentials are stamped I'll away to the coast. Rituals gather dust away in the less colliding sight and only pilgrims queue in line waiting to stamp their Créanciale where the mind lacks it's own relief; and It feels like a post office queue but the voices are bold and trancelike. I follow after. Coffee strains my mind and I feel utterly sick of the untruth even here so I leave the untruthful for a throne in which to leave my Pelegrino hopes. I stood back in that false discord for a brief thought. Coffee, Churas and Paracetamol calls me to prepare for noon exit to the end of the world: where I will bathe.
Dead fish are going with the flow following the final expectant steps of the Camino. Me, half filled of figs and green/purple tomatoes, fly beyond the clouds and fight against the turmultous tide.
All of the recent conversation back to England makes it clear in my mind that I am just about mentally needing to return to brisker Blighty; for a little while, and I am feeling utterly tired, even though my feet are getting better, oh for just one nights sleep without other's snoring, etc.; I am exactly knackered; hazy brained: something like poison crept up into my cerebil capacity after Cahors.
The short walk to Cape Fisterra felt indecisive. My mind wasn't on subject; I caught myself worrying a little about what to do now? A walk on ferry might be potentially cheapest from Santander if I head up to A Coruna. Something is suggesting walk home from Cornwall; another day and currently Rome feels like a crazy concept to the saggly tired eyed me, but I said I would get there to meet Jason for a glass of wine on 13th July if possible. Really I would love that consequence of random perabulations if there was a cheap means of traveling and staying there.
The end of the world is a great place to conclude the ninth chapter and recall all the fantastic food, wine and the cast of thousands I met across Europe. Some point has been reached in my head and tomorrow I'm heading north and towards the sights and smells of Camino Inglés; tonight I eat like a king somewhere honest and full of locals and stick with Albarino. Shouldn't all those guys in Fisterra finishing the Camino be more up-beat and not so glumly melancholy; everyone has done so well. On to Chapter 10 and another glass of Albarino; there is a festival to summer over the hill.
Randomly the sounds of a Brazilian drum band brought me to playing on Cervantes and a flood of some amazing memories with Steven Fitzhugh in Gracia, Barcelona when we danced like part of a tribe until dawn; bliss.
Some of the chapters of On The Road are like playlists for 1950s Jazz. There was a time all the names meant nothing now I am rather interested in Lester Young and George Shearing. But I will look into that blowing later! Girl with bright green eyes from Latvia Anse; Tygger tygger burning bright as the sun westerlings.
Walking off the main road down from the Faro I sought something else, but it was a complete dead end; stupid bastard! I was sure that part of the path would return me alone from the bus shoving crowds. You might love the view and find some persons there touching reality, however 99% are disgusting from the nape to their toes. Time to fiesta like it is 1999%!!!
When the sea sits 20 foot away: Always eat of the sea! O Pirata Frank(saint francisco) always creates a miracle from the deep blue. If you come to Fisterra then forget everywhere else. I have yet to find any any old vine Albarino; that maybe just Portugal? Refreshing cleaning vino blanco: just dry and zero label spotting; a better twist of seaside town. Wide as Sargo! What a delicate and lovely seasonally tasty fishy with a home made Albarino! Fine. Galicia is fine! Everywhere but Montpellier was/is unconcerningly truer as I reacted to textures, palates and tools. Heart and soul seek closure so should I carry on?
The distant noises of the summer solstice celebration came back over the hill and woke me from my deeply comfortable sleep. Something good sang me to sleep at just gone ten and so I missed another youthful celebration: I would've danced the fandango in my lean and handsome years with the same enthusiasm and freedom that conquering the Aubrac meant to me now. Age is conquering me.
This is not the end, but it is perhaps the beginning of the end?
Chucked my bag with oversized and watched it passing through the scanner to be seen next in Paris.
Passed Security.
Rapidly felt down 'where are you going today? Is it business or pleasure?'.
Paris/Pleasure.
'please remove your boots'.
Seismic security: I am not a shoe bomber.
Reaching departures.
A quick purchase of a new cover for the Kindle with the broken binding.
Bottle of water and £20 later: all I need is food to fill in the time.
Thinking to myself isn't it all trash, over priced or mass market?
Unrealistic.
Accept the inevitable.
In England is it impossible to get a burger without the stress of queuing behind flame grilled angry madmen - have they never waited calmly before?
People leaving to go on holidays never reach any sanctuary for the mind. Life is a choice so please relinquish the angst while I enjoy a Whopper(tm), sin queso, and, like a strange one, I sit on my own cloud apart.
Waiting to catch a plane is like being plunged into a hell of brands and consumerism. Walls full of intense insensible smells to deny any natural human smells and toxins to fill brains, lungs and veins with the force to control lives: Oh yeah alcoholism! This bullet kills. Shoot it at yourself; pay for this pleasure in duty-free; kill yourself free of customs and excise.
The burger did the job: 1000+ calories to burn between here and Lyon; saltier than the dead sea and I am a borax mouthed man. But hey! I am away in an hour. Piss-y England is forgotten in my flatulent contrails; driving south.
Paris Charles de Gaulle.
Although I have been through this airport before none of its massive features come back to me. I was hurried, juvenile and quite blind. It really was a different era. I am convinced I am not that blind any more. No rushing head long thoughtless, threatened by my own immature ignorance: think about it! The cigar shaped building of Terminal Two is a UFO, pondering humanity, north east of gay Paris.
Vending machines are filled with the same Mars, Incorporated, Selecta, bona fide snacks; universally bland and not local. A bottle of water later I feel my revulsion to the conformity of my actions!
We had just got going on this flight and I had opened the first few pages of On The Road. Reading it without hitting 'the catch' I read a short introductory section or two before the external pressure in my ears made me sick of trying to read and our steady descent towards the remoter Terminal Trois, Paris CDG, Roissy, made reading any more impossible. This terminal reminds me of others I have arrived or departed from: Murcia, Cairns, Doncaster ... airports are none places and, like train stations, I will alway struggle listing and sinking starboard as I turn about; they lack any warmhearted glow. The buildings stand starkly in comparison to the Cathedrals we built during the middle ages: they feel like God hasn't time for them either.
Just beside the gate I spot a Relay the last time I saw one of these was Bermondsey Underground Station some years ago. It sells every magazine in such compact density pulling the core of Earth back gravitationally to the rampantly unaware person flicking through spaghetti stretched time. Magazines are a 21st Century hangover reflection of an early 20th Century ideal, in amber, trapping us forever chained to the 1920's and its vivacious consumer revolution; culture begot voraciously since the end of the cold war; there are simply too many for them to be of any use to any one(how do they afford to publish?). That I had expected to find this part of Paris still beating an elegant French blood type speaks of my global stupidity and it stinks of globalist anonymity – I wonder why I would expect an Airport not be thus?
Sitting in my carriage on the TGV, more than anything I see around me forcing me to flee, is the constant reminder of a breakdown of the individual during our times mass globalisation. The sheer number of adolescents on this train who seem forever unable to escape the blandest repetition of some stereotypical image. Their veneer is skin thin and they no longer aspire to another subculture that might actually revolt my generation. What will we 'see' that made them stand out for their generations in history? Nothing beyond Baseball caps, Wills, Game Boys, Doritos, One Direction. A dozen French teenagers look exactly like a dozen English, American or Japanese. I felt moved by their simplification but I did not challenge other than with withering looks.
In my memory I saw my need to stamp my own image on the world in some form of open rebellion: whether drinking or taking drugs, choosing musical tastes guaranteed to anger my folks, wearing a style of outfit my peers and parents couldn't understand and my dispassionate loathing of both people and authority. I can hear another voice saying 'man chill you should not be so bitter - you were young once too'. But I don't agree really - how can? Just look at the state of the youths on this train!
Once we roamed like wild animals in Wetherby during lunch times eating cheesy NikNaks, playing handheld Donkey Kong or reading Astérix le Gaulois(in translation) at the Wetherby public library (I loved his capers against the Imperial Romans in Gaul) and it is dim but refreshing memory. Are these corresponding objects of a different teenage generation and an association? All this was in my second year at Wetherby High School when the dinner hall was out of bounds to us during some strike action involving the NUT and headmasters union forcing us upon a middle class helpless town. We spent many months, my cousin, his year cohort and I, eating Russian slices, Tizer (16 pence), chip butties when the old CO-OP had a café/greasy spoon; 1984 and all that. But I too fell foul with some of the vinyl(Duran Duran) I bought at that naive age and was really marching in time in the ATC too! Bugger!
Yes, I am On The Road too to find out more, much more, but this rail-road took me south and away from the brightest hedonistic pleasurable city of the nineteenth century and looking to my right side I hoped for a glimpse but saw it not. The train ride got going through ever more fields, flat, direct, lined and green, or with some slowly yellowing rape and beyond these, standing murmurous and conspiring, forests leading us away from decadence. While this flood of nature welcomed me from both sides of the track I realised this was a very easy way to reach my initial goal and my walking should be without fear and be forever unafraid of chance opportunities to challenge the easier paths. However strong I can stride my biggest challenge will always be language; whether my inability to speak with confidence or refer quickly to the correct terms. It is an invisible yet powerful barrier to greater knowledge and my pronunciation is just appalling.
My lack of a clear memory made me think that the short walk from Terminal 3 to the closest 'gare' was all I would need to do to reach my first destination. But Paris CDG is indeed one of those monoliths of electricity, steel, concrete and conceptional barriers to egress. However I did eventually fly and I shall not return via a straight road; hoping to linger along the rambling and fortune strewn pathways any chance would lead me. It will be done.
The windscreens on this XYD TGV are very dusty and all the views are made apparently smoggy, smoky, foggy, misty without; and this follows the banks of clouds from east to west. Shame. We pass some body of water twenty minutes from Gare de Lyon-Part-Dieu. Perhaps travelling too fast by train unravels the vast miracle of creation; from an air plane it definitely diminishes it greatly. This blanket to my opaque eyes is preventing escape, but I am told issue de secours and took a hammer. Clubbing frantically away I bring me toward a sight that should signify more with every dwelling presence. Having only travelled a limited arc I still feel the vastness is inhumanely mental and in the quiet coach thumb crusted messaging occurs rapidly with every downward glance. Departing the Modern World is my only hope.
Gare de Lyon-Part-Dieu
Wandering up and down the concourse of Gare de Lyon-Part-Dieu, between my trains arrival and departure, looking for a toilette until I finally find one. But as my bladder/sphincter pushes dangerously out I need to spend 50 cents not the 40 cents which is all I have left in loose change. I think further 'why pay at their convenience for your desperation?' The second train, two stories, clean and vast, I jump on and suddenly no longer require the bowel movement that threatened in Gare de Lyon-Part-Dieu. We move on to St Etienne Chateaucrox with me being followed by a mad berserker wearing a lampshade for a hat. I first noticed him talking to himself at Paris CDG. Glenn would laugh: public transport is often a public menagerie of crazies and I hope none of these crazed ones drives us onwards; crackers?
Hell I was too busy writing so I just missed the mighty Rhône on my right. Shame on me my veins could pour out all the vin rouge I drank back here! At Givors-Ville a solitary chimney sprouting alone keeps watch on my passing sign; a record of a mill that once stood next to the platform. To have only glimpsed the mighty glimmering Rhône as dusk settles on central France leaves me thinking of GSM. Wine will be done.
Day 1:
Voices American, Dutch, German, Swiss, Argentinian, Korean and French - Relais Saint Jacques in Le Puy. Finally that long day is over and I am well rested; the rest of me begins again today. It is nice speaking to so many happy people over a breakfast of coffee in bowls, pain and confecture (abricot and fruit de la boisson). Coffee, peace and islands of bread floating in a black sea.
Late last night, in the dark, I climbed the steep slopes watching for any appearance of the cathedral, showered in incandescent light, while the incline was great something brought my body, without a map, directly to the doorway into my bastion for this only night. Donativo. All given freely for a fraction of the cost we would be expected to pay and where a man awaited me two hours past the curfew helping me with smiles, hushed words and nods towards the bed. Divinely placed, in order and quite simply clean. Perfect. No headaches. No 'the time is nigh' fears. No worries of flea bitten ungrateful soreness on the morning. Leaving a donation is the obvious thing to do.
This morning I sit considering those black and white polished cobbles up the side of this ancient volcano and feel something better for yesterday's cloud straining battle against the perpetual interlocking madness of modern transportation. Striding up the basalt stoned relic to the lord's prayer at Mass in solemn and sacred French. Blood of a sacrifice in a chalice begins a new journey from blood to wine to blood. The silence and tranquillity in the vast and dramatic space; vernacular French ascends me from forty feet and more. The miracle of a wafer put on tongue. Corps de Christ but not do knowing of protocols in a language of mystery. In the silence of creaking pews we observe a miracle and part and part becoming wholly one.
After matins at seven thirty am this morning I have just checked into my second nights accommodation in Le Puy, but now off for a café noir and to chill prior to a little sight seeing and I will leave the morning after; heading out on the Chemin de Saint Jacques/GR65. Some good vibes already as people are truly helpful and offer simple, but very useful, advice to a potentially naïve traveller: looking after sore feet after a long day, etc.
Coming down from my bed for this evening, Gite des Capuchins, to a very noisy town centre, morning headache, after the tranquillity of the Cathedral Notre Dame as the main road through Le Puy is being dug up and replaced. How different the past seems with its kid gloves kissing sweet pea with tenderness and modernity with its iron fisted gauntlet grasping broken shattered and dethroned roses. Thomas from Buenos Aires Argentina searches for patisserie filled with crème anglais, Dieter the German goes up the avenue I'd already been to that morning and I tune into a wonderful French femme while watch a fountain pouring water in a spray enveloping all the colours of the rainbow and I digest the strongest café noir ahead of a grimace of tourism.
After that short americano (they do coffee so well here!) Thomas and I set off for the nineteenth century statue of Notre-Dame de France (sculpture Jean-Marie Bonnassieux) sat overlooking the city towering on the lava plug over the streets below. As it sits watching us on its very ancient throne I can see that this geological feature has been a focal point for humanity since we could conceive of a thought about our place in the cosmos. The cathedral is built as a doorway for the light from the east to ascend to the altar with all streets following from the east in a sweeping hyperbole; unlike every church I've ever been in this one has its main entry underneath the vast upper Romanesque colossus. There is a crest and notch in a mountain in the east from which glorious sun light will well up into the spiritual place(around Easter or Christmas?). So movingly ancient this place is and celebrations of the solstice or equinox happened here well before Christians, or even gods, were realised to exist. It has been passed down the aeons for ever and for everyone. You can feel its majestic symphony; the real sun shining on the raw lava, made solid and dense millions of years before, from the edges of the bowl. The cone has vanished with the time and tides but this extension will feature after our civilisation has faded back into the under-stairs cupboard of time.
Now having been forced to pay a little too much for an open, well constructed and light weight sandal; which won't cause many issues when walking smaller distances, after the main event has occurred, and at a price similar in the UK, I feel my feet will now survive the evenings when I give them a chance to freshen up.
Looking for some lighter blister socks, I found a string of three very interesting shops along the main shopping thoroughfare. Firstly bric-a-brac and antique with reflections of the Chemin de Saint Jacques in other eras, amongst some crime novels, a Sartre or two and a surprisingly dense and sexy selection of early 1970s Chanson LPs; another time. Then a fromagerie with at least two fromage de Pays; Very local, to be expected in France, and very tasty; like cave aged Lancashire or Wensleydale (must pop back tomorrow). Finally, when it seemed I had little chance of finding a sexy sock shop, I stopped via the covered market and was assaulted with a fantastic wine merchants also offering local produce and a local beer Biere Artisanale Sornin. Btw he confided in me that Auvergne produces a local Whisky aged in Armanac casks. I bought two bottles (of beer) to examine at leisure this evening!
Just bumped into Thomas who has been walking and sight seeing all day. I am still feeling the side effects of yesterday, and the early rising for breakfast and mass, so need to relax before I set off tomorrow in earnest. I will need to meet Le Puy for its 'plot' so I put on some trousers and drift back up the heavy igneous mount. There will be pain and fromage on the path tomorrow. Suddenly with so much happening I am running short of hours in the day. Less traipsing and more contemplation after watching the town drunks. Different language, same wild, ragamuffin, strong beer, daytime boozers on Place du Martouret. But I wait with the sun peering out a glass of Gros Manseng, Brument 2010, and promise myself it is only one at the Tam Tam brasserie as I haven't come here to end up drunk. On Place du Clauzel I welcome a Ridgeback and it's now twice I have welcomed canine friends this day because I'll never forget those doggy kisses.
Day Two:
Got up, jumped out of bed, packed and now I am ready for breaking my fast. In total, last night, I had a glass of Gros Manseng, Some excellent local cheeses and two beers from a local brewer. Slept from around ten until six am (five in UK). Now I am awaiting my morning coffee from a stunning mademoiselle. The wonderful smells of freshly baking croissants and thick luscious French roast coffee. Paradise is here in combustibles again Buerre a la Brest au Breton. Starting this breakfast to gentle voices French. Thank you for offer me coffee in which a spoon is stood up and I know I will always willingly be a Francophile/Gallophile type.
They is another form of maddening head shake these French femmes in my eyes; why can't I have one? It is a holiday weekend. The same one I flew from in Brittany in 2000. I am back in France without the other mechanical camping site building requirements. My tears fall for joy of French voices and my heart jumps a beat faster from deepest kava.
Passing by the window march a cluster of prisoners, aka pensioners, who now fear death's grip unless they seek redemption after retirement. Off they stride passing my temporary bower and I am sitting on the left side of the path I will follow after I consume unto some equilibrium. Before departing I will need enough water and a couple of bananas for breaks along today's etape and the sun is shining after two windy days it appears to have settled down; for today? Thomas left to find his mother's sides relations via train and bus to Figaec to reach a little village called Capdenac. I am finishing breakfast with compote de pommes raw lovely appleliness.
Last night I took time to re-read Lesson Eleven of ACM before passing out and on the edge of sleep I woke and spoke to Thomas as if he was the person in my dream. He seemed a little confused by my actions. Very very far out man! Finishing off my ablutions and lastly putting on my walking boots ready for the steady way. Twenty three kilometers to St-Privat-d'Allier then rest. Need to fetch water and banana from the Spa I noticed on Place du Plot, down the hill, then back along the GR65.
***
Bonjour world! I've just walked 20 km in less than 4 hrs carrying a 15kilo rucksack and I feel great. One last hill after Montbonnet will bring me to my first rest. I've spent the entire time pointing at objects with a French man(Dominique) and trying to learn what they were – Nettles, Grass, Cow Parsley, Mud – and I leave him with another French gentleman who speaks no English. No one has overtaken me, but I seem to have passed dozens, over nine years walking our dog has taught me well how to walk in all conditions; oh what arrogance, but remember this isn't a challenge!
I left Les Capucin and town at eight am and began the steep steady Route/ Chemin/ Camino/ Way/ Path, as it rises straight behind Le Puy to the south west, and I was really huffing and puffing with that first exertion beyond sustaining compote and charging coffee. Stopping to look back at the cathedral and statue this morning I know I will probably never return here. There is a great vista spread from the terracotta tiled roofs and the bell tower rising towards the nineteenth century's crowning statue. By now I am sweating happily into my stride. The tempo of my exerting is soon over as I hit the smooth rhythm that always defines my stamina, once the initial assault is complete. We pass a number of quite fascinating natural lava monuments, with detailed signs in French, German and English and I can no longer hear any of the buzz of motorcars following me from the A1 and the mind-bending drill that is digging up the roads in Le Puy has become a faint memory. Any noises like this will prevent me from ever really loving the roar of modernity and I don't think you can negotiate with nature when you can no longer witness its existence, presence or smile with it.
Two brief stops today with Dominique for a coffee I spilt everywhere and Verbena tea with silver toothed Mr Joel Bernadette (I remember his surname because we made a joke of it sounding like bend a knee), who's wife can't talk because she has had some teeth removed but he calls her anyway as she apparently speaks better English having worked in York, and we came down the road together ducking through some sodden pine plantations finding an alternative path where possible! Oh look a sign post for Dallas, JR! He leaves me to find his Hotel for the evening.
So I have arrived in St-Privat-d'Allier and, while I relax on a stone wall looking up at the 12th century castle, providing biscuits for a wandering waggy tailed Monsieur Chien (a Labrador), I consider my first walk bold and expect my first bed to be firm while the clouds gather over head. Once I check into the first Gîtes d'Etape I find only two other pilgrims join me in that room and I realise suddenly I met them very early yesterday morning at Relais Saint Jacques - Christian of Halle, Saxony-Anhalt and Patric of Basel – but Christian is having to return to Germany after damaging his knee coming off the hill behind St-Privat d'Allier. He seems to have gone through quite a lot of challenging walks and I hope that this hiccup will not prevent him returning once his knee is solved (I found out later that he'd split the muscles behind the knee cap, Ouch!) and I wonder if I will see these guys regularly along the Way as they seem genuine, helpful, open and honest.
Day Three:
A new experience was the eating of chitterlings sausage in mustard sauce, with gratin dauphonoise (Hotel Chambon, Saint-Privat d'Allier), I didn't know what to make of the texture but I was so damn hungry I wolfed it down and so 'when in Rome' plus the house white wine was clean and washed my palate clean anyway. It was around zero degrees here last night and I felt it as I reached for the blanket left at the foot of the bed. The room was snug but only just and the toilet was bloody freezing! After a visit to the bathroom I realise Patric snores loud so I might have to take today steady? Last night I found a small blister on my left foot, middle toe, but this morning it has reduced. But I expect to know about it tonight. Hey that's what our none shod feet are made for - blisters!
This morning, as I rolled up my sleeping bag, I questioned the German I am sharing my room if it is OK to eat all this animal fat I find in the French diet or if it is a bad thing; I've heard of the French paradox too. For the amount of energy we use walking our body requires these fats and will use them as energy too. Maybe he is right. Fat is really bad for a sedentary life watching Loose Women, This Morning or Jeremy Kyle! So with added gusto, on the 24th, I breakfasted on pain, fromage du brebis, confiture, buerre doux Brest, orange presse and café noir while Charles, my Saint Etienne supporting host, who plays an 'oldies but goodies' Age of Empires with expansion kit at 7:15am, and I take in my second café noir so soon it is Ouvert and out Saint-Privat d'Allier.
The cloud is draped heavily across the top of the mountains, threatening rain, and we must assault it and 1000 metre climb, combined, incline prior to hitting the top of the Aubrac plateau in the Massif Central. With a heightened sense of my mortality I go and finish my ablutions setting off just after 8am.
Aside observation:
Since departing Le Puy I have seen only one ghost for sure (perhaps two) and Corinne, the wife of Charles proprietor of L'Acrobate, is the only one I have paid attention to long enough who appears to be breathing but is the living dead I once observed in my fathers eyes. The other person I saw only briefly back in Montbonnet, as I drank my Verbena tea and tried to understand the Silver Toothed maniac. It was a simple bed and filling breakfast for €17 in Saint-Privat d'Allier, but why do I convince myself I see ghosts in people yet breathing?
***
On reaching the top of the Aubrac plateau, before coming into the first town on the Way, I am suddenly surrounded by cows swaying and ruminating to the chimes of antique alpine bells; in distinct brown and white they provide le fromage du Pays from the tender unpolluted dales, a farmer calls good day bon jour and swishes a stick to guide them to fresh pastures; a dog darts behind the feet of those cattle hesitating.
For the first time in my life I have climbed beyond 1000 metres. From leaving Monstrial d'Allier, which is in the area known locally as Margeride, I climbed beyond 600 metres rapidly; in the frigid hale, bleak swirling winds and twice I reached the tipping point of water and mud. Both feet! But over a crest I hear school children so relaxation and Sauges is before me; phew, and I descended from on high to the town centre of Sauges my body begins to react to the constant tread of size elevens. I set off this morning and didn't halt until I arrived eighteen kilometres later shattered by the stiff inclinations; there were at least three valleys to walk up and down the banks of cliff like crevasses; I ate on the hoof and followed the line of least resistance as much as possible following stream after stream back towards the source. Passing the hydro power station as gallons of water poured off the escarpment I pushed myself to pass all travellers and arrive first in Sauges prior to one. Dominique, for all his age, was flying but I was a buzzing fly too momentary and fleeting. Receding were all; Japanese and France; it's not a race, but I felt supreme to be top of the class. Neither Patric from Switzerland or Joel of France caught me today. My last opponent was a Deuter emblazoned rucksack German frau. Beyond that I was solo stomping as these fraudulent May snows whipped my nose into a rosy glow and my legs went shaky as I stopped outside some building with steps leading into it; why did I walk so far without a break?
In the town I asked for directions to my accommodations a number of times before, at the entrance to a Tours Anglais, an ancient elderly lady beckoned me to stamp my Créanciale – my first conscious stamping – in what I guess was her habitation. I was in a rush to get my feet out to breath again so I hushed her rabid Gallic prose as well as I could and promised to return later for my blessing. Finding the d'Accueil de la Margeride became a challenge as I waned inwardly finished. Passing arrogant school boys, slicked back hair with a flick knife at the ready, a corduroy school master and another younger less threatening femme I finally crossed the threshold to solace and re-composition of my atoms today. With thanks I hugged the lovely femme who signed me into and rushed to urinate; phew: and relax, but there are no toilet seats! Time for a siesta then douche before finding dinner tonight.
In my haste in the main square the first building I enter to get directions had once been the pilgrims infirmary/hospital but is now a home for the declining/infirm. For no good reason I ask a gummy fellow for directions before I realise his yellowing visage and blank stare told me I had stumbled into a retirement home for directions. I laugh at my luck finding this first; the word Expo brazened on the side of the door had me entranced obviously.
***
Needing to stamp my Créanciale with the fussy old lady I leave at five to find café noir and log on to the matrix. She is very helpful, via a French couple translation, I must fill in my information on my Créanciale prior to leaving France. I had no time to even read what was within the companion piece or the Créanciale itself. I am awake by 6am and after packing, breakfast and ablutions it is already 8am when I set off for l'eau, compote de pommes and banane and the Chemin St Jacques.
That was my third stamp. I leave her with the dignity of kiss on each cheek and to discover a café to engage with those back in England.
A discussion with my room mates for tonight explains that Aubrac is famous for its beef in France. I can understand that once you see the miles and miles of rolling grasses with hardly a house in sight; Sauges has a population of 2,000 only. So I am happy to discover that the café I drink and communicate from is, from 7pm, a brasserie specializing in beef. Last night I told myself to be frugal when out eating, but today I have grown tired of pain et fromage constantly. I won't be able to escape it until I reach Finisterre, Spain so tonight will be the other side of beef in France! The shower beckons me!
It is Friday in France. I've only just thought of this truth. I hope everyone in England has a fine Whitsun weekend regardless of the horrid things that occurred in Woolwich. Not the weather for it either here or up north; an anti-cyclone is bringing the arctic too close during this month of transitions. Most French I speak to expect 2013 vin to be great or really bad; it happens: more brandy based alcohol, bio fuels and industrial spirits this year?
I've dug out my jeans and jumper to improve my body temperature and the radiators are on all over Europe. This cold spell I can live with if June sparkles and I can choose just shorts all the time. The unseasonal weather actually gives me time to adjust to long walks and carrying a large rucksack and tent. I can feel my additional timber vanishing with each turd, piss and sweat since Tuesday at 6am onwards.
When do French persons eat their evening meal. I have had a Plat du jour at 12:30. I should ask as femmes might frequent the brasserie this night; I am wishing my French was better. Maybe I am the strong silent type or silent but deadly. I will be consistent and try to get this tongue before I reach the first goal of Saint Jean Pied d'Pont.
Best steak ever. Top notch. Rare and perfect. A chef without any ostentations simple. No crazy attire. Just fantastic grub. Mousserron champigone in creme with a gratin cauliflower. Met the older Japanese who has been walking with jetlag too. No snow is good. A minor sprinkling to the north; from my window I cannot see the direction of travel. Awoke at day break more or less and feeling a little more smelly. The wicking base level does the job required but over a few days I'll smell more rank.
The mushroom sauce was simply cream, garlic, salt, pepper and the meat glacie with these midget mushrooms was a great complement to a satisfying steak. I had planned, it being Friday, to look for females in Sauges, but then I realised I need all my energy for the long distance to cover today. No way as dramatic as Friday, but still a steady climb of 300 metres over 30 kilometres; Samedi. I retired around 9pm without a beer. I wrote to Glenn and Nick and sent a few text mothers way.
By 10pm everyone doing the Chemin was snoring gently, except I, but as the light crept though my eyelids around five I realised I too had slept well. I turned over a few times, drifting in and out of sleep, but at ten to six I am cleansed, packed and ready for petit dejourner at fifteen minutes after seven. This organised structure of each morning dictates the progress for the remainder of the day and any one should be able to complete thirty kilometres in around six or seven hours, with a short café break half way. The main thing to keep the walking pace consistent is what energy I am providing my body. I think a pack of compote pommes, three banane and the fig wayfarer biscuits will keep me and I have a copious amount of water, which you can fill up on numerous occasions as you pass villages, hamlets or farmsteads. There is still time to relax into the morning while eating breakfast without being overwhelmed too much by chattering French teeth speaking in unison; it is washing me in absolute French verbal and body language distilled without any English to retreat to and I am learning more than I did ever at school. What is necessary is a real situation to have to grasp what is being said between people and this goes beyond the classroom or a textbook or a Linguaphone self study course.
Having started the day with the simple breakfast we all set off on that crisp morning to continue on the Way. Today is Saturday; take is steady/relax into my steps today.
Yeti! The test of all tests. Driving snow across from the west as we climb up to a point two thirds of the distance from Saint Albans - Les Sauvage – and I must stop. Considerably wetter I rushed up the side of the mountain to peak at 1292m. Coming to the Auberge du Sauvage en Gévaudan nestled against the driving snows that has forced me up this path in such haste. This could be a place to relax and reheat prior to the final leg of a gruelling thirty three kilometres day. Need some warming sustenance definitely. Beef stew and roast potatoes and salad leaves. Readying for my body to assimilate the energy.
With all the exerting came a kind of snow blindness. Everything was tinged with a ring of pink. Now the weather has changed and a thaw is on. Snow balls bounce off the back of my head as we duck beneath the spruce coming out from Les Sauvage to Chapel Saint Roch. Onto a road we're making excellent coverage buy my left third toe whines; a blister and we arrive at Chapelle.
For several days I have questioned myself why there is this daily race; I flee towards the final few kilometres today wondering who am I trying to compete with? There isn't anyone to beat and I feel a little pushed by that Frenchman in shorts, so I let him disappear ahead and ignore his continued beckoning and pressure - sod you! So Sunday will be a gentle wandering into Aumont-Aubrac; there is no rush.
Reached La Maison du Pelerin. Shattered. Totally worn out. My left knee is swollen so much with walking badly and my blister is aching. A Dutch guy, Hank, has got a beer. That would wipe me out I fear? Well maybe it wouldn't, but I have no way of testing this theory as a recline on my bunk.
Met a dog at La Maison du Pelerin. Wondering how Mister Dog is doing back in Bramham. I always give a warm hello to any dog on the way.
Am I wrong feeling that perhaps a lot of people don't do this Way of St James for themselves? Why would you only consider this romantic reality after you are retired. Has life had no meaning at all?
The older pilgrims were actually bringing me down but our host and hostess provided a scrumptious feast and entertained us. The dog here is so friendly I may have recovered a little from my negativity after the last leg of the walk. Tomorrow I'm booked into a friend of the hosts Gite fifteen kilometres which is a relief. I realised today I've been moving one way or another since Tuesday morning with our dog and I am not on this journey because it is a challenge, but I might fall into the other category described by the confraternity of St James. Before I get carried away with had become a race there needs to be a night and morning like today. I've hit a low in my mind because I've been listening to the ego dictate my reasoning; with a couple of outside influences.
A simple meal became a beacon to what I had chosen as my path on this journey. I will complete my Camino another way with less demands daily.
I shared the room with a retired couple from Konstanz and a retired Dutch man who comes across as slightly seedy, suggestive and laughs heartily at his own wit. Most words levelling his lips are expectantly humorous!
On the walk yesterday I was wondering how I remove someone else's shadow from my thoughts. A man I see that is a corruption of truth and yet doesn't see it. A man who has everything yet seems to value none of it. He must be in my thoughts more often than I am in his.
Le petit dejourner day five. Sat in the lounge cum dining room of our hosts as she cuts the morning pain and asks me if I am married or have children. I answer her I don't I have nothing.
Scrumdillupious confecture a la rhubarb and elderberry rhythm of the jams. The dog is happy in his place after a lonely and solo doggy wander around Saint Alban's looking for the saviour and those to bless with his tinkling.
Last night our host, over dinner, told us the tale of the local wolf, who had been murdered centuries ago, and was blamed then, and forever, for any evil deed that only a man would commit, thoughtlessly, on his fellows. A tragic tale of a scapegoat used as a means of escape for one barbaric act.
After the most complete five courses of lovingly created fayre, and locally made cheese and bread, I spoke directly with him of my last days horrible chase and how I felt haunted and lost upon the frozen mountain trail. He saw that I was in a state of considerable agitation and in need of help. It was then that he told me that he was a good spirit put there on the junction of the roads to help those needing support, guidance and friendship to take the correct steps towards discovery of their path.
The transformation of a man to a wolf then back to a man.
The humped back, silver toothed jongular driving me to meet my fate with snow blizzard along our path; hiding our footprints.
My delay with a memory of the knights of Saint John put my foolish guide ill at ease. All his efforts were in vain; as he was unable to force my feet beyond redemption. So voice or something called me back and forced me to stay there to save my precious heart.
He was a most peculiar man hopping from foot to foot, with his silver stare, his tarnished grin and the weight of his back bending him almost double within the domain of the knights.
Unable to speak the certain words to charm me again for his deliverance and lift his curse I pressed on through the snow towards the Chapelle St. Roch with him at my heels and pushing my stride; chasing me towards his final chance to deliver me.
The race I had begun was not something I thought I would contend with without choosing of my self.
When he saw my fate was not in his reach he moved on to another victim.
The orange ogre was without a smile and a little love only.
I was caught in a trap like a rat in a cage or a butterfly formulated on the pin. He forced me to bend at the knee for him; I thought this was for a blessing but was sudden to realise he meant to manacle me. Once I saw his silver canine twin sets of twin teeth I recoiled in shock, realisation and awakened from the dull sleep he had placed on my head.
Once I realised the fact that I was being occluded in this desire I stepped forth leaving the snow, heavy clouds and the fool tumbling over his footfalls and arrived to be brought to safety in the home of pilgrims; I saw him not from then on.
I retired with a haunted mind and a pained expression, but felt relieved to have escaped alive.
In the morning the lady of that Maison provided me a salve to protect me from the false threats that had almost taken me from the purpose and meaning of my reawakening and now out of that place I follow a snake like path to hope, solace and encampment.
Walking away safely singular once more I knew then that a kind wolf had been benevolent towards me taking me in and repairing me to walk onwards without the possibility of doom.
An animal is a beast, but a man can become a monster. Today was considerately easier going for me. I set off after petit dejourner alone and promised I wouldn't spend any of today's stage in anyone's company. I have learnt already this is my walk and must do it my way all the way at all costs.
After a superb communal supper I went to bed on the top (in a bunk bed) for the first time along the way. Hank the buffalo was below me and the German couple from Konstanz were in a double bed nearest the window; without any curtains so you could only sleep dusk until dawn. I slept peacefully until Hanks snores brought me out of slumber around half past five. I tried to block out the pulses but it was impossible. Eventually I got up and packed ready for breakfast and the continuation of the Camino.
After two successively fast paced and relentless days it felt that Sunday mustn't be as forboding so I could just get somewhere and feel a little more like a whole bodied man again!
I walked passed the church to find the Spa to pick up my daily combustibles and took to the steady path. I was consciously aware of my left foot and both knees (after breakfast I had bought le Maison home-made Arnica oil to help my aching knee joints) so I set off steadily, but with a mid point halt at 7.5kms in my plans, reaching Bi(g)nose within one and a half hours. I tried to stick to a pace guaranteed not to get me to my pause day shattered.
I stopped to have a café and one quarter of my sustenance around 10:30. I have realised I divide my walks in to quadrants with enough energy food for four stops. Compot de Pomme, banane and figue biscuits(4) - I am not in the right season to hope for windfall the same why I could in Croatia; if summer ever arrives.
I arrived in Aumont-Aurauc having developed a fable on the hoof. The doctor in Leeds told me not to ignore the world around me, but I don't think I did. I was still aware of all the sounds and sights as well as the change in the terrain. Whenever an idea struck me I added it to the tale I am telling.
There was every chance I would've showed at this gites, looked and felt disengaged and carried on, but it is safe to say that this is up with the Czech Inn for simple luxury: everywhere there is pine, oak or sweet chestnut in the design of the interior. It smells of a sawmill deep in a forest:
Chemin Faisant.
Once I had arrived and changed I went out to phone my hostess to let her know I had arrived. I waited in the midday sun and saw Hank coming my way. He was hanging about waiting for his hotel to open, I didn't mention how luxurious this gite is because the vibe would've been broken with his over bold lewd joke telling and manners. Phew he carried on without me dropping a clanger!
A French couple arrived an hour or so after me and so far that might be all arriving on the Chemin Saint Jacques heading south west.
Zero half-day, Sunday 26th May.
Shuffled around the edge of the old town and being aware of what is on offer today: local wine and pizza or a local Aligote (potato and cheese). Half of me wants to stay in Aumont-Aubrac and the other half thinks get moving tomorrow. My mind says yes but my body says no!
The French lady states that a full wash dry is a hefty 11 euros. Good job I can't smell myself at the moment ... I will ask my host as maybe I could do it for less?
The mad man I was hiding from today has been seen by the Dutch twins, I see at least twice a day, boasting his latest achievement was only 3 hours from Saint Alban to Aumont-Aubrac: snap! and I was taking it steady and I stopped for an hours recompose.
Paid my hostess for two nights with only breakfast on my day of departure. I will cook Monday night and may have a massage prior to finishing the Aubrac in style up at Aubrac the village, which overlooks the Lot Valley.
Come across the road for a final plat du jour. Some vin and a pretty femme. Expect to sleep forever tonight. No issues at all. Whole room to myself. Tomorrow night might introduce younger persons towards my flight on Tuesday?
Oh vin! Why do you treat me this way?
Real nothing day. Bought a couple of things I'll need for camping after I reach Conques, including a purposeful multiple knife: Victorinox. Last expensive day too. Next location only €8.50 per night. This town is quiet at 12:30 as everything closes for the afternoon, but for a change the sun is out so it feels like a great day to stay put. Spent a tidy sum on dinner last night as everything is otherwise closed on Dimarche. Been to the pharmacy for foot cream, voltoron gel and contact lens solution.
Did a wash first thing and now everything is back to clean for another four days muddiness. Meant to rain on Tuesday and be about 10 degrees centigrade. It is a surprise that the weather here on the Aubrac Plateau is exactly like the UK. It's a kilometre closer to the sun so that must, by degrees, makes it feel like the UK. All the flora and fauna is identical too. Like an island in south central France. If anything we are still in early spring here as the leaves on the trees are still at budbreak stage.
Sending a postcard home from my second stage start point. I'll continue this tradition at Conques.
Was infinitely sore yesterday so my body slept until a fabulous 9:30am and all my preparations for merdi departure at 8am was complete by noon. C'est la vie ...I need to clear out of this town as soon as the dawn has broken. All I needed here was those functional things we take for granted when we have occupational responsibilities. Saved three madam from Quebec the indignity of Gites Calypso. A man with a badly tattooed arm, a collosal 'I've never even been in a boat' faux sailor's air and huge wowser. How easy is it to see vagueness in out of the way places? The self same vagueness England's pubs exhibit. So far I've managed only a couple of beers at meal times. Last night I ordered a half bottle of Vin a la Maison. It was to wash the food down and was insignificant. Having eaten my fill at the Hotel Aubrac for lunch I will abstain from anything else until I cross the street, duck into the Rival store and pick up my provisions for 35kms tomorrow from 8am. The first part of the pilgrimage is concluding with me definitely mentally refreshed and bodily reorganised today, 27th May.
Read a few chapters more of On The Road to the point he shares a bus journey with a Mexican femme from to LA. Mad! He crawled in the window! Is that what Dylan meant? Having read it so far I can empathise with his sudden urge to carry on travelling regardless of final destination.
Will I be hitching from the 9th June to catch up with my buddies in Montpellier before hitching back to continue the Camino a week later? Glenn has been to pick up the Euros I sorted before I left.
I'm sat on my balcony as all the life of rural France flies by; it is exactly as meaningless as in the UK. I think more of the wolf in sheep's clothing as an obstacle to overcome through self examination. He had no knowledge of what I was seeking but my mind allowed him to enter my subconscious and bring forth demons. He is at least a day ahead of me now.
This morning I was ready to leave the Chemin Faisant by 7:55am. A breakfast with people leaving by train to jump forward some 300 kms in seven hours; catching three connections at various stations: that also is a Way.
Walking though Lasbros my thoughts turn to Lord of the Rings as I am walking passed a feature known as Barradou.
The two Germans I saw this morning, who I assumed to be French, I left behind at Le Gare Au-Au, but as I approached Chapelle de Bastide the cheats were already ahead circulating like the Kaiser's Raptors.
Onwards at a steady 5.6kms per hour I am covering the distance respectably.
...
'fucking weather, ha!'
What happened to the weather. The wrath of god was upon the moor. From a cloudy day to a torrent of earth molding rain and, for the last eight kilometers, head on sleet straight at me. I can't actually afford a proper meal, but I'm soaking and cold and I swore at the Aubrac like a man possessed.
So beef and aligote will solve my inner need. I read somewhere that this pilgrimage should work out at 1€ per 1km. Today is the test. If I do 35kms I will leave Aubrac the village 35€ lighter. Perhaps my sanity has been pushed on that moor. I'm wet. My balls and tintagel have just about vanished. I felt tossed like a leave as I weaved up and down over ever more horizons without a house, farm or barn ever coming to meet me. When they finally did I found it wasn't blasted Nasbinals, 1180 metres further from reality. Where is the roaring fire and the buxom wench? The warm hearted woman for this frozen homme. In the distance I hear Django Reinhart drawing my thoughts far into a distant land of repeated lavender fields and the red sinking sun. Sol, where be you today?!? Come back and play with us a while. Kiss us with your loving, passionate, lips.
Between Au-Au and Nasbinals zero euros and now 19 down on a warm sunny day you could manage all 35kms none stop. If I leave now to reach Aubrac will it stay dry for eight kilometres?
...
The last stage went upwards and on forever. I really thought I would never see that Tours de Anglais before my legs gave in. 35 kilometres weighed down by a rucksack waterlogged, boots sodden and trousers wringing isn't a happy way. Just as I was giving up ever seeing this Aubrac, from a V shaped cutting in the trees stood the fine four storey English Tower over looking the cloud bound horizon; at the beginning of the end of the Aubrac Plateau. I arrived in the ancient church to be guided a few more gleeful steps to the Hotel that deals with the reservations for this ancient tower become gites. Staggeringly lovely and romantic soaring high over the villager's heads; I imagine Eleanor of Aquitaine being sung to passages from romante de la rose while troubadours earn erstwhile love from white hearted ladies.
A minor drawback - I couldn't manage to pay for the bed at the Hotel because they only accept cash or cheques(!!!) and acting on behalf of tourism office in the next village along. I freaked that I was wet through but would have to walk another eight kilometres to find and ATM or bureau de change. Luckily she told me tonight I could stay for nothing but pay the €8.50 in the TI office tomorrow; which I will as all good things etc. It was a long walk. I will sleep soundly and forgo breakfast and eat in the village where I must pay the ferry man.
Fig rolls in France are exactly how I recall in my youth. Jacob's used to make them full of lovely fruity loveliness. I could eat a whole packet today. Not going anywhere out side the tower now except in the morning. Next port of call will be Saint-Côme d'Alt in a steady 23.4kms. So plenty of time for fig rolls!
As I was struggling towards Nasbinals I tentively tried to hitch straight up to Aubrac. The first vehicle was La Poste van; he couldn't stop, then came a tractor; no space to hitch and finally when I couldn't take anymore a Peugeot sped past without a second glance; vainglorious bastards! I'll teach you about the lion going from strength to strength!
There are 58 steps between me and the throne; either way it will be freezing come morning. Most of my clobber is dry again: except the cotton stuff. Lesson learnt there.
Snow falls again so choosing to stay in and do nothing has proved sensible, however prunes, compote de pomme and fig rolls are not a banquet fit for the histories played out by chevalier's passing this way around 1100. The wintry weather would be preferable to the damp mess Tuesday was. The Aubrac plateau reminds me of the North York Moors; hardly a tree in sight, except spruce plantations, and bogs a plenty. It's great cattle weather, true; the beef is dead cheap and excellent and the fromage de Pays is top banana. Cantal is Cheddar! Actually apart from a couple of working horses the only domesticated animals I've seen are cows, mangy feral looking cats and bright eyed working dogs.
So muddy. I feel like a soldier in the winters of the trenches. Set off walking before petit dejourner
at 7am. Wanted to come away from the snow and mist I hit St Chély d'Audrac and the heavens open again. I can't walk a second day soaking wet so I stopped to have breakfast. The day is cruel until a man in a van comes to Relais St Jacques who carries bags down for the lightweight walker. I hitch for to Saint Côme d'Olt. If I had set off any later in the matin I would've arrived soaking again!
Wow! A quick look around the church in St-Côme then rejoin the GR65 lighter by €15, but drier by far more. I went forward around 15kms so I still walked over 15kms and arrived in Espalion. One stage further but no less torture; the rain lingers, but is more on and off than constant. I still come down into Espalion cussing St Jacques and all his many demons. Chasing me up another twisting and sodden excuse for a path.
Now the rain is steady like you get at the seaside: Whitby, Scarborough or Bridlington; flip your coin! I take cover for a wonderful galette and to await the opening of the Gites. The weather has no meaning. It is meaningless to weight it down with personifactions. But the rain fills me with a deep longing for more yellow mellow circumstances. It is what it is.
Something I've eaten has come straight through me; Delhi Belly. Not sure what it might've been but there were plenty of flies at Relais St Jacques ... the food itself is usually 100% so maybe the water could be a possibility. It is a relief this didn't occur when I was marching this morning and before I climbed the hill between St-Côme and Estalion. That was tough climbing through the black stone quarry soaked. I'm not bothered about statutes of Notre-Dame really. I wonder if rural France never saw anything of the Revolution at all? There seems little to have changed since 1789 except motor cars; the diet must be identical? The food can't be a reason for these tidings.
Booked into to a gites occupied by a strangely inanimate Argentinian and Germanic caricature. I said hi at reception but perhaps shouldn't. I don't think he could conceive I had jacked England in on a whim. Body language and face of an unhappy person. Step back from over caring about what is meaningless; my Way isn't his: c'est la vie.
After a good Plat du Jour toying with the idea of catching a bus to Conques tomorrow to try to catch up with Brad the American PHD student? Will do! It is my Camino and some one must speak English without suppositions or expectations. My French is dreadful: no issues. Someone french, who knows my french is awful, has issues. 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 rivulets of smoke twisting and turning a thought to deluge and confiding sweetness to but a few daunted whispers of something somnolent and splendour to come. I consider I gave my mind to the rain and it returned what I always forget ...Three bassoons playing a mighty sound. A bass and two tenors. Hugely funny. Well not when it is super snores at just about 4am. Hank the orange ogre is the leading instrument of this particular trio. But the rhythm is abrasive and never sings me back to a grave like sleep; I slept through my own memories of completing tasks and feeling open, yet on awaking I felt closed from self engagement. Truly.
I feel mental this morning. I got up to discover all my walking clothes are still wringing wet. I'm not walking to Conques. There is no way I could with a rucksack and another bag of soaking clothes and wearing denim; rain loves denim. I now plan to get to Conques and get a sleeping roll for my tent; from June the weather is meant to improve. Christian the German walker who returned with snapped ligaments managed €5 per day camping.
Either I give the clothes that are adding to my weight to charity, send them back or throw away. Bernard the Priest states you can leave with a charity in Conques.
The transit arrives a little late, I thought I had missed it, around 8:20am. I'm physically shattered today. My back is less painful, but I am overwhelmed by lots of rain, wearing wet boots and heavy snoring. Those things which weren't bothering me are coming to the surface. I was sketching nonsense last night too. Start again as of today.
Shoe polish and poncho.
How many days did it take me to begin to lose the plot? I've been gone since the 21st; 11 days. Ok. This is a mission. Now I recognise no one! Great. Beyond the continuing Gallic tones.
I cheated but I caught the sun. Solace for the soileli. Tranquil village with birds busily building their nests. Although the expense of France makes me feel I should be gone after another 300€. Spain will redress the balance.
I cried. So stressed that I cried. And in the Abbey too. I was saved by two ladies. I took my clothes to dry and the American lady described how the roses were gently caressed by the priest every morning. He has sadly had both his legs amputated below the knee so now he can no longer tend his special flowers. I asked for help. Margorie explained how etape should work. I am poor, therefore I need to state this at the communal gites. I give what i can. The communities of god rescued me from self destruction. Now I Relais with tea: Japanese, overlooking the communities Abbey church.
Back in 2007 I read Spike Milligan's memoirs. In Italy he went crazy with the shells and continual rain. My screaming at the top of my lungs from the excursions after Saint-Pierre de Bessuèjouls was something like this.
I feel better in Conques. I had a coffee with a Dutch professor, Hubert, who feeds the finches; a retired professor of architecture from Amsterdam who invited me at 6pm to share a beer: Fischer bierre d'alsace. We discuss the decline of the numbers of finches etc in northern Europe. They're culling magpies in France as they have become a pest. I leave him to investigate the gothic arches of older venacular homes.
First sign of warmer climate... Lizards on the roof getting warming and waiting for a fresh fly Plat du Jour! Bon Appetite and along comes Patric of Switzerland stopping to recover for a couple of days? I will need to eat soon I forecast as dark grey clouds suggest rain.All of the simple things feel too expensive.
Walking is free but not always easy.
The roofs in Conques remind me of lizards scales and also of Gaudi in Barcelona. Very natural and pliable looking. Not at all regimented or manmade. The colours vary immensely from olive and grey to sandy, cream and blue.
I take the donativo for tonight and the morning and tomorrow pay for my way at the Gîtes d'etape communal.
Conques reminds me of Cesky Krumalov in the sense it is a museum only. Bierre is €3.30 for 25cl. Beautiful and historic and empty and a rip off; strings of souvenir shops: sold everywhere but made in China.
...
Walked rapidly to destination for tonight. A little bit of a hicktown to say it's on a major crossing of the river Lot.
Thought that Patric had sped like a bullet to Denzeville, but he stopped for a break; I didn't see him, but he said I looked miles away. We walked together for a while until he said his feet were tired and sat at the roads edge. I thought the GR65 was going to pass through Denzeville, but it came down quickly and went up steeply behind it too. Looks like I took the longer scenic detour that, although official, adds 5kms to what was an arduous assent from Conques straight up the ravine on the south west side. That means my meandering through vegetation and sludge might've been a little more than I was expecting. Pushing today by 13:45 to 30kms. Next few days look steady and will camp if the weather holds tomorrow in Figeac. Yesterday's bonfide donativo at the Abbey probably saved me 30€. Tomorrow is demarche so need food this afternoon for the majority of the walk. Really rate these Agen Prunes; cheap and plentiful, full of energy and nutrition; pfrt!
Tres bon afternoon. Warmer all round. Eaten. Douched and bought breakfast now chill. Beer cheaper and very refreshing. Come on France, be nice!
Lot hotter today and less windy than yesterday. Set off prior to petit dejourner to reach the camping site earlier to set up tent and go a roaming, but there may be another donativo in Figeac. My legs felt heavy today and it was a struggle to reach my second pause before the final ramble into Figeac in another 9.5kms. Great bar for coffee and sandwich. Before I move on.
Might've eaten too much Pays Saussion last night and one glass too much of Côtes du Rhône? I can't say! Chilled walk should make it to Figeac by 4pm.
Seeing lizards regularly. The bakery in Livinhac was run by the Izard's. Poor quality pain au champagne. Flavourless; none of that wild yeastiness I begun to expect from French bread.
Must've been said before but human habitats and habitations are a repeat of planets, stars and clusters all revolving towards the more massive centre. Like a gravity well the cities pull away the life of the closer persons to the centre; it is impossible to escape unless you happen to have an escape velocity? Right now I am traveling mere light speed to enter the gravitational pull of Figeac before I am slungshot onwards at a faster pace than when I arrive.
It is you that the means of pilgrimage aren't the way of a pilgrimage. Kings and Queens went to holy places regularly, but they weren't able to walk the whole way; they took whole towns along.
Just passed another pilgrim going the opposite direction. He tells me to stay at the Carmelite Mon. Donativo only.
Coming down the last stage to Figeac I smell freshly mowed grass and hear the regular sounds of mowers closer to the centre of wound up humanities. You don't need to speak a way to understand the persons of the way.
Arrived at just after two to a very closed Figeac. Nice town oozing history! Cafe and boots and socks off opposite the Office de Tourisme. Nearly two hours early to see if I can stay at the Carmel hébergement.
True times thrilling through the arteries of my mind once I arrived in Hébergement. Help on my way by the kindest of persons giving freely to those without fear or willing to give tears.
Just took the photo of my life! For sure. Placa de las Castanhas, Figeac. You must see it Paul! The apparently spontaneous is really orchestrated by proto expectations and absurd realities.
Just met Ken and Bouldy and sent a fraught Ken to the herbergement for donativo so he can sort his bank issues after a rest in a bed.
Back at the Carmelite monestry I finally caught up with Brad. We both have elder beards. We agree to cross paths in Cahors soon. He walks 20kms now. See all things are right here now. Even an afternoon of Blur/Blur. On my own but not M.O.R. ever again!We lucky few had the full Hospitalité of Jacques and Marie at the Carmel Gîtes. The best food I've eaten while away.
I asked if I could stay an additional day to look around Figeac and agreed to cook tonight. Seems only fair? So Beef Burgundy it is then. I return for 2pm to go with him for groceries.
Yesterday I was the hyper me. Really very excited; half expecting a migraine because I was dizzily happy with the coincidences of yesterday. I developed a headache from the sun perhaps, but that was all it was; Kenji provided some painkillers after a little confusion when he thought I was asking if he needed painkillers. He had not heard of paracetamol, but that maybe my dialect which seems to fox everyone; even Americans.
After the glorious meal we wandered the town in the dusk then Christian and I went to Le Bar for one glass of Vin du Cahors! Sumptuous rouge! The king of grapes done so perfectly that maybe very few wines come close to that perfection; it is understandable why Mendoza's offerings are so popular.
My mind is finally feeling clear and simple. I was walking through the town yesterday when I had a moment of total happiness. It grew to a crescendo in the Placa de las Castanhas ... The home of Champollion is Figeac. The first man to intepret Egyptian for our modem mode. The Rosetta Stone brought me henceforth to step the way and see a connection betwixt the many aspects of the world and me.
Conspiring to bring me towards this point of change which I embraced entirely. We sang the song of the pilgrim. I had heard this song three times prior but hadn't really heard the meaning. It is a celebration of our way.
Figeac is the second town where looking up to face the day is a reality. Four storey townhouses give the place a palatial splendor; where cats feel they might spend at least one of their nine lives bombing the Placa and dogs wear pink bomber jackets and feel silly.
This is a clear morning to sight see. Prior to the rising of the masses l passed the old part of town and viewed the city from above; I could see the Carmelite Church from behind the city walls. The dawn light populated the sights with blue and striking shafts and ruffled my frantic hair.Nick asked 'are you not sick of walking?' that is a hard question to answer. No not really. Somedays it's more of a challenge to my knees and calfs, but on the whole arriving in the place you're going to stay for the night is very rewarding. I feel I can achieve the totality of this Camino in a variety of modes. Today I wish to stay and be alone so I said goodbyes to all the guys/gals I have met since the 21st. Our paths may cross again on the Way; I am sure. Like the Célé our paths are shaped by the mysteries of the cosmos; moving ever onwards to where? If we see each other not we will be seen in our memories.
I am pausing a day once more. Two solid days of walking. I confess I don't know how to slow my method of ambulant. So I do the distance too fast and my body shudders as it alters to the new flow!
The good vibes flow into me from prefecture Lot. Figeac is sending me by the bus to Cahors and camping for a few days until Saturday(5€ per night). I will do circular walks to see Cahors. Visit a vineyard perhaps? I am totally changed by this city and the expectations of Cahors.
The hardest part physically and mentally was the Aubrac; I could not know the Massif Central would quite so uniquely challenging. My mental image of France was formed from my two visits separated by two decades of youth verses maturity. Firstly in 1984 when I was twelve and never looked beyond my feet in case I was seen looking further than my peers would allow. Secondly in 2000 for French Life where I spent months erecting tents on badly leveled plots and cleaning rusty static caravans in the deluge of spring; with no help from any quarter including the cowboy employers. Neither showed me the external France; those experiences were English: misplaced and misaligned to the sun.Highs and lows. I've looked around and read a little. Now I've returned to the Gîtes for a siesta prior to the grocery shopping at 2pm with Jacques. Feel a little forboding for my decisions to cater tonight. It's so easy! So why am I nervous?
Flying ants up the wall of my room. Moved bed as the hosts attacked the infestation. After a snooze we popped to Carrefour to buy groceries. It is closed until 14:30.
We passed a mutton/sheep fair all penned in to go to market me thinks these be lambs to the slaughter house. Celebration of spring lamb in Figeac changes the tone to one of convenient brutality. Animals go through a very unusual existence for us humans.
It's a while since I stepped into a supermarket; such soulless places. I was a little in awe and confused like a jungle tribe native who'd never clanked his eyes on civilization before. We came away with the hind quarters to slowly cook out the stew for ten mouths to feed a little prior to 15hrs when Jacques entertains more pelegrins from the GR65. I wish I didn't feel quite so confused by the French conversatons. It makes things twice as mental. My mornings milaise has left now that I've kept away from the town that was gently leaving me bewildered and penniless. Jacques paid for the food for our feast. I did offer. Two days gratis. Feel a little truer. This is not a tourist trap!
Before dinner was to be served I popped out for a bottle of Cahors Malbec €4.99. We few, five, ate the beouf bourgorgne and pomme de terre puree. Marie Charlotte is a wonderful enthusiastic girl of 26; wow she is lovely and amazing and joining a convent in September. I was speechless I wanted to ask her not to! She must be in love with Jesus indeed.
Michael, another American, and I sat through a dinner without being able to add words to the French discussion going on between our host, Jacques, Claudi and Marie Charlotte. I'm too full to even considering watching the ongoing deeply confusing stuff; I just want to understand!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!Arrived and pitched my tent. Took no time too. Looks really cosy in there. I'll sleep soundly until the birdies bleep at dawn. Serge is our host for the remainder of the week until my stuff arrives from England. I need to find a roll matress or something compact that I can add to my back without killing it.
I walked round the city and must admit it us another place that feels it. The medieval bridge etc I will see early on Wednesday morning before the crowds and the sun is up.
Been to see about walking to the various vineyards and doing tours of some of the more unusual bit. My random footsteps brought me to French Coffee Shop where the proprietor helped me with instructions. I must head to Puy l'Évêque to reach wines of distinction. As recommended by Yann. He also rates Le Bergouvnoux for great quality food at a great price. He was involved in wine prior to his current venture.
Belmon, Montplaisir, Nozieres VdP. Douzil.
Gaillac domaines d'escausses.
I came back via a shop. Picked up Cantal Doux, Pain Rustique, Vin de Pays du Lot and added to this I feast on Pruneaux and grand Biscuit du Figulo. It amazes me I can relax aside a major European thoroughfare on less money than I could so far. I have two days work left for a few euros and rubbing huile d'arnica de la Margeride to sort my left knee.
Funny episode in La Poste. I changed my sterling. Into around 33 euros. With commission I was reduced to less than 1 to 1 equivalent. But I finally have all I need for the week. But I wanted the cashier to change my 'change' for larger denominations. She thought I was trying to give her another €5 towards commission. They couldn't understand what I was trying to achieve. It took three cashiers, 1 customer and one manager to finally get me to a much more happy 30 euros.
It might be a time to chill ... Serge sorted me with a blanket and matress roll for my guarenteed comfort in early June. But I need a wee and the toliette might be outta sight. I'll pop to the house for a little lemon twist.Everyday leads me towards a wriggling worming wandering wild but somehow structured dance. I changed into semi decent attire for Cahors walk right not left at the Cathedral and via Pont Neuf and come to the House of Wine in Cahors(not called that, mind - I forgot). I struggled to open the door as a young boy span on a carassel, for fifty, uncovered for just one pie on this particular sparkling Merdi nuit, I pushed in to engage Almond in wine plaisir and after much happy nattering he invited me to a full tasting horizontal and vertical for Cahors! Blown away I am. So I've popped by for a couple of strictly educational wines. Le Dousil is the devils wine whore whipping me to wake below twinkling stars and rustling wazow.
Why whine about wine when you're in Cahors? They will look after one! Local, demi doux local, sud VDP and return to first before I walk to the Pont to be mugged, rapped(rapidly), meat hooked and left to drown in a loin of Lot l'eau.
A half eaten bottle of wine
With an incomplete percentage of cheese. Twenty Five Euros and 1/3 if On The Roadbut for what it is worth: a tent; sleeping bag; blanket and the left bank of the Lot to sing me to sleep. The birds signing yet fade back to hooded eyed peace.
Neither have I lain here pondering the somethings of bird outside my bivvy and beyond the drums I hear sounds the wheels of fortune calling me. No candle today, but stretched out to await the dawn sing song call.
You only sleep when it is dark in the world. A clock I dare to see strikes the twice tenth hour and I wait upon the last blackbird to cease it's frantic soliloquy.
Sounds when I arise and the feeling songs of the dawn chorus were within touching distance of my mere bed; Mother Nature's bed. A solid floor without give or sag or impressed body yet! Time will mold to fit my shape as the earth reaches to draw me down to rest in peace. Seven bells called my body up before my descent was permanent and never again would the world be blue and jewellike and free.
With time for a douche and a re-fix of my tent I left to find Cahors right bank and swim to the Cathedral and a Market jumping a volume gallic and brightly painted in product hues; piles of fraise and cherries and asparagus and pain and fromage and jamon and nouget. I wash my mind in plaisir of traditional simplicity and find French Coffee Shop where I left it yesterday to consider my day trip to Puy-l'Évêque and fine wines; quite possibly the finest wines on the finest day of this random and unthought path I tread: Juin cinq.
At 10:30 I am pushing on towards the SNCF Gare to hop on a bus away for this bright cherry of a day; catchya l8r alligator, in a while crocodile?
With a punnet of the smallest and sweetest strawberries I wait until the bus sails into Cahors Gare sun brought a lunch under the perspex shelter, young cheese and sunflower bread, and now I switch to the lounge of the Gare to eat seeds and flesh so red, pouting and rude. The time to go is thirty five minutes of French muzak drifting lightly and Whitney Houston simpering slightly simply stumbling in this sunstruck wait station.
In my head and chest I recall Jared, Angela and Nicola and The Bodyguard when we were inseparable. Jared Nelham. York Clifton Moor years have passed beyond that day for us, but I believe that was a happy halo of a few hours; and I will always love you.
In the dried muddy boots I left my tent to dry in this peach of a day. Blue from horizons all around 360 degrees without clouded shades. A few contrails play about the skies like soaring dragons in flight. Every thing is still and waits the carriage of the sun to his level best and I contemplate the uth in head gear and inner space.
Well, you can tell by the way I walk...
I am going nowhere?
Staying Alive.
To confuse a cute passing French mademoiselle who becomes a feature of us awaiting at a station. I confuse her by confiding the photo she participated in but knew not. Out our driver has one eye focused at me, attentive, and another watching my shadow, lazily, and off we go to Puy l'Évêque for the day.
Another coach journey another distance metered out in songs played at a level to requite the hours; Monomania - Deerhunter. Unburdened the hour flies in the songs played while street signs sigh as they represent constricting temporances.
Look at those row upon row of growths fragrant and fixed until they give away the secret in the changing of all seasons. I am presently pleasantly pondering the real reasons for my eventual escape from nothing real. From all the north and all the south of the escarpment, divided by Lot, sits the future of the Cahors Malbec. The birds swoop waiting for the buds to open and jets burn after the scorching skies. Primary reasons to open and thrust the berries thus as we thrust upon the left bank westward. What an adventure for the pelegrin de l'vin as the east sinks and the airs swirls.
A family tragedy. Son kills sister over the vineyard. Belmont. A father who created it died for it to be broken betwixt two competing emotions; a very French story of vine and humanity. The son wanted to be honest to traditional values and the daughter needed modernity to ruin the perfect with heavy corporate hands.
Yesterday? The phone died as the sun reached the azure in all its hues. So I could walk a number of fifteen kilometres from Puy l'Eveque to Vire-sur-Lot over the Lot at le Port de Vire and north along the D58, such a coincidence I dare not discuss it now! With gathering momentum I reached Duravel and stopped for quiche, eau and to run out of money with no cashpoint in sight. After a quick bowel change, oil change if you will, I looked no further for the 25cent I was then short of for the bus and decided to continue my path back along the main route to Puy I'Eveque all along consider how to financially live out my current deposition in Lot/Cahors.
In Vire-sur-Lot, after five kilometres through generous vines left and right, south and north, gauche et droit I looked for an elusive Chateau I had seen pointed to twice but not come to! I came to a conclusion of a one third Way on this journey: Chateau de Hauterive. Up this gravel drive I trundled with crickets calling me forward, feet after foot, fleeing those sun rays around 2pm: a straw trilby protecting a baldy pate.
... Et older ... Welcomed my solitary footsteps and accepted my Northern tones in generosity of soul/spirit/Saint Jacques way. We discussed the age old question of the age of the vines required to produce 100% malbec 'prestige' and ponder rose, everyday and ponder Chemin de Compostelle and the blend of malbec and viognier working well at a price to loop the loop skip the skip; slipping and gliding; truff la la!
The last leg of my walk back to Puy l'Eveque was under duress of vacant bowels and a hitching thumb and a many heavy trucks bound east; bouncing and trembling my wake as I considered being crushed along the hardshoulder to be seen squashed for years to be.co.me. Ambered.Angered.Out!
In the long sun I waited post eau and banane with impatient youngsters on 50cc, who vanished soon without stepping onto 916 unto Cahors.
And then? No music we passed reversed and I looked out the windows at more of those vines because the college femme left Cahors but didn't return to Cahors. Thus amazing my mind was assaulted by estrogen then but vigneron back over the Lot numerous, too many to recall, into Cahors to hop and collude the streets directly back to rue Jacobins and a tin of lyonaise salad, cheese, jamon la fôret noir and baton baguette and the fin de seicle le vin Prayssac: Une printemps dans le Lot.
Write drunk? Edit sober! Not this trip. Write at leisure au Matins French Coffee Shop. Cheers Yann the French man. He has a crossover vibrance from his travels he is more blooming French than the conceited pelegrin I spend evening meal and petit dejourner waiting to switch on? However from the last night David the Flemish allowed me speak in our fast English tongue to the confusion of all francophone francophiles frankly anywhere! Funny it was? But our host explained the method of Spanish madness in rays of Saint Jacques stella through the regions the closer to the compost stella; merde!
Bed ... As the road to Puy l'Eveque and suppered and frank voice killed me down down down down. The spurs of younger clack clack clack clack blackbirds died.
Walking round the bend of the tumultuous Lot and walking up to a cliff overhanging the linear cataract if I didn't have fear my mind would not resist. Something distant is occasionally speaking to me with abrasive voice: I dismiss it quick and confound with joy le vie.
Awaiting fixed to the spot I stood gollum strong, again for the swallows to dive under the arch for 'the' photo, but they failed to show twice. Following the route GR65 I went above for views of the city and bridge in the foreground and was nervy towards the edge; in sandals I could topple over. It is a majestic city below and beyond. Why pass through unaware on GR65 unless you see only god ahead and not all around.
On my own that voice! I don't know who it is. But it is not the seeing eye. It must be some damned creature infested in a distant cellar. By one I defeat the other one because I know and is wrong. It is a noise from the past; distinctly on its last toe nails.
Taking my turns round the cathedral to Saint Etienne I was washing my head and neck with water from the holy font when Brad walked beyond me into the space. I watched him and noticed he hadn't seen me so I waited til he had gotten solumn and spirited and launched an attack upon his calf like I was a devil reaching up to pull his measerly body into the place we're all going to go (right on brother!)?
We were truly happy to bump, bounce and brave the subtle Ways that continue to deliver interleeveing of our data streams.
But we worried about the virus or corruption in Michael's datastream. His packet to packet had become an exception error from which his only resort was to install a recent backup or wipe his thought clean, or return to his manufacturing home and call the whole thing off? Driven off the way by the longing for a return to apple pie, jelly and burgers. Nothing was alive in his eyes; I've felt close to that breaking tip, but then found another Way truer to the man I am.
I know now I am awaiting a washing day and delivery from la poste to exeunt stage right and march on towards Montpellier and three generations of familied clones and one less gibberish aflayer fumer testiticulars. Not that I condescend to flagellation (Great, that it be? Yes, it is!); ever.
Oh go defenestrate your measerly body down son (of a bitch) as go to meet a one I love; and elsewhere with your squeeky mangle, woman! You distract me like clack clack clack clack/cri cri/cackle. Booked my departure from this department Saturday morning 8:53am single journey; no looking back so go and defenestrate this ... ¡!¡ ...QDJQVJ.
Je suis un pélerin?
Friday morning: 6am, I slept for the third night under the stars with the croaking of the frogs and acquired some tender bites from vamp like mozzies while I took my solace post wine taste from 7pm until 9pm. Some very charming vignerons, sassy ladies from France, England and Alix a mix of France, Scotland, Italy via South Africa. I asked her out today, but some South African family friends arrive today... No can do, but we'll follow each other at a distance ever stretching but internety and betwixt the twain.
By the end of the tasting Almond, host, told me off for helping myself once too often. I am grateful to all whom showed this years blanc ans vintage 2012. Some successes and a couple average and two clear winners with one an interesting third for Sauvignon lovers. I will pop back later to photograph the ones I sampled; for the record I was a little drunk as this was a slurp not a spit!
Drifting after 9pm back to the lovely Corrina ich bin von Bamberg, Deutschland and as a 'cabinet maker' she blew my ickle mind. Made of a pale wood and gently pleasing to the eyes, mouth, throat, etcetera etcetera. With those insects taking a free supper I slipped pleasantly to bed with just one mouthful of trois monts bierre. The tented floor now feels true to my bodied form; it takes a few few days to alter and your mind awakes again; even though I cannot really undress or dress another method but horizontal.
Looking at my role in this journey I hastened to quell the disquiet of my reflexes and accept a pélegrin? Is not a question that needs answering with just seeing the accord of the symphony notated in the key of D major moods on. Upon the scales playing the chorus and harmony yep.
The weather has changed. This morning there are clouds so Saturday will rain; I skip upon the new highway.
Celine/Yann have welcomed me towards this city and everyone I have met has equally delivered a 'real' sense of France. From Serge on the distilled and quieter left bank to the modern crazier right bank I am safety catch trigger happy.
Je suis un pélerin dans le coeur.It struck me this morning that my contemplations began in March and have been marching and evolving since. I read back the first part of my current journey and the latest part and the differences are immense. Celine of French Coffee Shop also thought my tone had moved from appallingly suicidal to frankly free and apparently not feeling my impending doom.
Lots of simple ways to finish my decamp this Friday. Nothing significant other than I bought the 2nd and 3rd best wines I tasted last night. The first sadly isn't available for three weeks. I'll look out for it again. On balance the two wines were a grand €42, but I figure Glenn and I will enjoy them sometime in Montpellier. If Jason were in Montpellier then I would've brought the last wine of the slurping, but sadly he is in England and i won't see him until Rome and an entirely different category of rouge ... rosso - advice on a postcard please Janice/Fabio et al. I aim to walk up to him on the 13th July quite carefree.
Simply concluded a few banking boring transactions: you have to pay the ferryman occasionally. Conclude for canard! ...
And after that feast of duck another bowl of chocolate mousse!
If he be Mephisto then I fart like Faustus freely decadant and glutton bloat! There are plenty of crazy French living alongside the businessman. Misfits of society who seem unable to be the real them? Drugs, drink, sex or desperation. I reached that final tipping point and will not retour while my feet don't fear the tread of molded soles and wearing away tarmac.
If Britain left the European Union I don't think anyone south of the channel would remember there were some oddballs north who chose to flee a better way? England gets closer to the States but will drown in apathy once the continental shelf rips the piece from under our arrogant stupidity.
Like the Gemini stars the dutch twins shine for all about and make me wonder if they are one or two or both.
Always give a dog your love.
Last night tranquility and ar be Jesus there be leprecorns in my room for this Friday relax - Hi Cork/Dubliners.
An OCD day? Yes I am tidying my rucksack for the morrow in a most distressingly calm and organised fashion. Cahors is ending; but I am peacefully and absently silent. Drifting unto the frontiers of Friday I put all my clothing straight along the line and organised it by what I will wear and what I will roll so blimingly sweetly tucked in the bag awaiting the advance of Samedi. I purchased a pélerin pendant from a charity for five euros and gave a beat up tramp my final five euros change. Bon Voyage people and have a wonderful vintage. I switch off this means of concerning and instead spend the time reposed in On The Road. Byeeee!
No no no. I am surrounded by Hank the ogre and an party of quite pointless hiberians. Why? I thought it was just me and my francophiles; not tedious dutchphon l am fobic of his gaping jaw arrogant loudness. Why did he need to sit next to me and why didn't I move even when he did.
Retiring to bed after four courses of our host and his partners best fayre I can still two floors up still hear that monster's voice. La guerre du! He is an arrogant chin waiting for a blind darkness to be kicked in the fuckthathurts. Over. Nice meal and I love Serge and his honesty. He makes me feel at home even if I asked not to sit with my Celtic cousins and hoped to remain unhanked ...
I didn't judge but retired as early as Serge wouldn't seem badly of baldy eye. To bed with BRA! To speak to my sister and be happier within and without.
Why just retirees? Have the young forgotten their feet in a consumer dust? All teettoring on the gulf of cracked tooth and forked tongue wag. No matter what I say, and how close to pronouncement, I am sounding more like the French Policeman in Allo! Allo!
Fucking dick Hank! Good riddence to appallingly arrogant man. Yet au revoir to Serge; a splendid homme! I spoke to my Irish cousins no more; carrying the hopes of disappointment on their furlocks and moist hiberian palms.
A road to nowhere
Bought petit fraise, €2, figue and banane sans moisture, €8. The Moroccan crook wanted €10 for 100 grammes of dried banane and fig. C'est la swindler!
With a change of pace becomes a change of place and change of pleasure: hello Edinburgh University persons! Bonjour pretty journey femme heading to teach in Italia.
Rant to university boyo from Leicester via NUT and Edinburgh History degree over. Jump on another train before the day of rain commences. Thunderstorms await in Montepellier ... Splish Splash; Shock and awe.
Thought they were of the first class creature variety; inner tone maybe in pocket perhaps non!
'Mon Couq has a blockage.'
'Hello Ruth.'
Most amazing Winchester fayre. The petit dejourner of the first leg of the tourist trip. We talked and walked and coffeed and parted a carriage apart on the TGV. Her eight me seven. I wish to meet her again if there is any chance for us to say salut once more.
A swift grand/petit café noir and I'm raring to reach the Saint Sebastian Relais for this hopeful week. It is good; even if a French chavette would move not to allow me the aisle seat. I couldn't care for the change of mood the journey could become post Ruth hast. Happiness from neuf to onse will remain happiness before apres midi!
Have a southporter for me! Just meet a Winchester lovely; lovely. Best two hours of ever. Between sunrise and sunset!
Fraise and eau to bring on the future and turn to tonnes of tuneage to complete this ensemble! Smiling dried banane exhaust the path tracking down the rungs and a flat landscape filled with clenched fist clouds. I care less as I observed the sunshine of her face today. A cave could not occlude her visage from my eyes; my eyes have seen her.
Red stained fingers stack against sulfur bright fugue fugue figue. Turning to Spotify a bon Deerhunter - Monomania.
Summer sounds feeding my ego free mind that is guided by right thumb thrusts; repetition.
Delta to the Bay; right through the Plans. Not quite, but on my right Carcassonne. The viability and ventures of my right hand view suggests the other route I go: depths of greys beyond the legumes and greens and vines there on. As a rain falleth east to west our carriage ripping up muddy miles; hoe! Arles we go? One stop is Nabonne and an hour from stopping to investigate Montpellier.
Around half an hour of distinctly unfree uncaring travel left. Just get me there so I can jump and blow and single out. Time is for me free to plunder plucking strings and jazz bar jives.
As the distances stretch behind me and the zip zip zip gets closer spaced I am finally in the bored place. Twelve more minutes in waiting to jump off this painfully solitary journey; one coach might be one league and then some. I watching time turning over and expect to be drenched, refreshed and no longer fatigued.
Arrived and its rain once more! I mired missed the time :: previous I am to three hours. Rest to await the rain to hang five. It flows in torrents. I will fetch a poncho regardless as this kind of rain probably falls on my waterlogged pate and sack au Spain? Food for an available hour my hymn it is at the base of Saint Roch Chapelle, in town Montpellier. My stomach pains me from overdose of North African fayre and now I pay for my €2 barter.
Carpaccio of boeuf not in Saint Mawes but sat outside le Chapelle Saint Roch. The wine list? Trentino beckoned me then; in France stick to belle acidité Viognier, Domaine de Virginie. And canard completed a the retour de la violence politique and Trestanton.
The rain falls and I already wish to forget it. I am looking forward to seeing the English guys but in the Orchis there is another zombie eyed news channel doing the same empty 15 minute advert plug and densely empty smothering prometheus of expectant feelingless faces.
Merry French revellers, Spanish bongo drummers p/assing the windows and such clacking thunder of snores: in Montpellier I sleep in an ancient pilgrimage halt for a night but most of the noises kept me alive in that dark. Even at six this morning people verily singing and shouting as they travel back to where-ever they live. But so inconsiderate at dawn to call so vigorously. The young do not know what happens around them; just between their ears and legs. I was never a carosering choruser. Oh snores of fin.
The destraction to destruct all notions of sleep on this Sunday morning. I don't have to quit this donativo at all until ten. Back to struggle with sleep a while, I feel, now the partiers have vanished and the snorer will awake soon. I retired again but the death rattle of magpies kept this away. Eventually I turned over and all the beds were vacant and the sky shone through my unshuttered windows. Rise and attend to petit dejourner somewhere.
I hung out for a few halves before returning via Saint Roch later. As a consequence of meeting Neil from San Francisco earlier I popped in the Irish pub next to decommissioned Saint Anne. I thought he'd said he worked therein, but he was not to be seen. I justified this particular approach of mine, I rarely ever entertain 'Irish' themed pubs because they are always faux Irish; same as British pubs: and why would you leave your landscape to paper all your visits with the very same bland woodchip? I normally vector straight back the way I came, but Neil had enticed me like a cunning red fox to this den of doubly reenforced pricing: €7.20 for a pint of Guinness! I am not that sort of genius. I got burnt for sure. It's all I had in my pockets. Another unconnected American tried to justify the price due to the weakness of the pound! Bollocks I said. That ain't nothing but faux Irish greed! That moment of low fall will sit in my mind linked to all monsterous acts of infamy man played upon his fellow man!
So this is le place de la comedie; wind and rain on the agenda. But first Caffe Noir grand if you please. Accordian player accompanied by terrible James Last drum machine. Refreshingly bad. Le Café Riche on a drenching day between fleeting clouds and badly timed discordant musician and humourlessly €3 a petit café créme. Just one more day of commercial nihilism. Monday to the beach to camp out of this crowded crime.
After a promenade amongst the livre stalls vending authors handicrafts: stylish typesettings and such. I arrived at Fata Morgana whose simple clean styles appealled most to my inner inclination for my discussions to be writ large and forever.
Appalled by the expense of the prices of a plot of simple soil to pitch my sleep for the nights to come I have travelled beyond the suburbs along a tramway and highway out to le plage and my first view of the Meditterean since 2010.
Visited the coast walked from the east of Carnan Plage, some sardines and other nice diner after two. Missed a bus back to Montpellier so necessary to wait in this resort. The camping site was 18€ including tax per night which feels like cripes! extortion when the only real option is the Auberge Jeunesse. Nice area for a day on the beach, but hardly aimed at the pélerin sort. Back at the youth hostel and I'll hang around here while Glenn etc are in town then I will sort out transport to Pamplona to get back on the Camino. France is simply too expensive to hang about between Cahors and Saint Jean Pied du Pont. An amazing dry Muscat sec Le Pot VdP cleansed those fishinesses clear away! House wine tres bon too.
It is a good job that friends are coming here tomorrow. I think I would freak at this city very soon. It's alright if you're seriously plugged into the matrix, but I was in Cahors becoming more less and less more. The brain doesn't need this town. It's just too Leeds. Party is not the Way.
Very much the end of one adventure and now Sunday I await the start of the extravaganza of Montepellier with friends. Today my happiness of Cahors has waned; this might just be an accumulation of lack of sleep and constant traveling, doing and being. I'm sure it is temporary like the brief thunder storm. I don't feel like engaging so much. I'm definitely more tired than required. My eyes are really dry; a change of lens might be a need. I'm more than a month into this pair. Off to bed. Eyes out. Shower on the morrow. Up and at them. Basic end of day: cheap urban Kebab.
Monday morning torrential rain until 3am, binmen at 5am and street cleaners at 7am. Hi Montpellier I am awake and wondering what happened to nothing?
Put on your morning shoes; dancing shoes, it's good for you. Good morning. In France there isn't any such thing as a good morning. Bon Matins is not a concept. The changing aspects are not reflected in the morning. Day break I have my fast of cafe, confiture and pain: the repeat of the everyday man.
I am le chatty man. Not an Alan Carr twatty man syndrome merci! Third cup of cafe/choco and really I still feel a little indistinct. I'm pushing my self to fratenise but don't really have the feeling for it.
A youngster with Nike Air Jordan's Marke trois hasn't the history of them in his stride. Is it a fault of the older generation's grinding teeth when they see the lack of a subculture that hasn't been assimilated into corporate face/off empty eyed mouthing? There is no struggle amongst the urban classes anymore; just the dread of a zombied trance. Is that what a maul full of undead unread is really saying about the mass society: oh lets all clap!
I've had one night of a youth hostel and it might be just one period too much. There is the chance I'll return dreadfully pissed, throw up and be violent to myself without thought.
Mica from Hamburg and Chantal from Berne helpfully proved that it was not me it was the strangling Auberge du Jeunesse ruining my. So I Fled to better strands. Choice. 22€ for appalling Hostel. 18€ for distant campsite. Or €30 for a private room on my favourite Chateau - rue Cheval Blanc! Bring on those boys!
That's definitely an improvement and I would give the Jeunesse a very low score. Dispassionate staff in ordinary clothing, a very thread bare and ragged environment. Feeling un appealing to new comers. I felt for all the other 7 in this 9 bed dorm for having to stay longer! It didn't endorse Montpellier. Majestic is simple but clean and ideal. Only got space for two days so hang France. I'm heading for Spain the first opportunity: Samuel was a helpful guy who might be able to give me a deal if I stay longer ... Go for now relaxed and reached a place to retire away from what was dog shit alley Hosteling International lacks a dynamic of back packers or benevole or donativo.
Food. Shop. Figs, compot du pomme and pruneaux. The best option to encourage me back on the Camino for sure. Reminding me of being brave and walking forever without sight of another soul. Just me and my matter.
Montpellier might be meaningless to my simple self, I can feel the barbaric me trying to clamber passed into me. Begone devil. The rain has evaporated and it's a wonderful afternoon listening to sing song French while my Galette Complete is placed before my greedy mouth! I live for a proper Breton Galette; they can be welcomed in and set a fire to the Camino of your soul. Common food definitely gives to me all the nutrition until fair galant Glenn arrives. Finish with hummus in Le Salidou au rue du Fg de la Saunerie ... I would recommend this tract: Gambetta before Place de la Un-Comedie! Food is meant to reward us in our declining passions.
The middle of the day is stripped bare and taken apart from the tedium of earning a slight crust. I think the long break, from noon until 2:30, allows a productivity for the French majority; traipsing in and out of their domains. I return for a siesta in the solace of my chamber: room 14 third floor, Majestic Hotel, as the skies rapidly alter. Grey coming from the east to the west with the potential to annotate the streets with excited hands.
Trust is a funny thing. I came to this city not for me, for Glenn, but also because I felt lonely and needed a good Yorkshire voice to help me on my Way. Nothing real came of Montpellier so I am quite smashed and wondering how I was brought here without self control. Some dangle of a nice rope played tricks around my face bringing me south east and never south west of France after Cahors.
No matter. Wednesday I will head west away with the sunrise. Some options are Perpignan, Toulouse or Barcelona. Or further west Bayonne or Biarritz. I'm beginning to feel Perpignan as I really don't want to be in Barcelona or Toulouse, but it is a reasonable distance towards Pamplona.
The old me maybe would let the negativity of yesterday play tricks with me today. But something great comes of flipping with the ready formed road west. Wow Glenn u needed to have a break for yourself? Instead you have a nightmare during the day.
Wow another guy who I see as a mistake of behaviour: Matthew arrived in Hotel Majestic with a chaotic woman from Austria. I am glad the rooms are individual and not communal. I told him I was on a pilgrimage and he said 'are you religious' because this must be the only reason you would walk this way?
The Russian honeys are leaving for Nîmes Nice or nowhere. With weak hand shake they depart. I'm hung over and want to grunt. Good morning Non-Pellier; looks like I'm being broadcast for a TV show. I do choose them. M6 Capital. Coffee and a sarnie.
Perpignan it is then. Sounds like a romantic city. A girl is travelling from Grenoble to Perpignan. If that fails then internal local regional train. No more expensive TGV.
Last night's failures have inspired me not to dwell and saved me money as I had expected to be here until the 17th. Glenn's girlfriend's family saved my sorry ass from rectitude and more commercial solitude. I'll pack and eat at the Duck place In Duck We Trust. I'll take the wine and spread the love I have for Cahors in snarlingly crap Non-Pellier.
No thoughts are neutral. My happiness is still a bad thing. All thoughts are damaging. There should be an absence of thoughts when I hear them arising in my mind.
Home Coffee is a snippet of American commercislism plying it's trade inside another vulgar monster. I've just moved from the TV camera. Another thing that is also meaningless. What does all this rotten interviewing say of the limited viewer and realm of fiction bouncing around a cathode ray tube or lcd display. Fire off. Clap your clapper in your noses. Oh it will increase the limited visage of your face.
Montpellier has been a challenge really. I can feel nothing but relief when I catch the first cheap vehicle out of here. I'm sat beneath the opera house looking along the M square and it somehow feels dirty, messy or frantic. A lot of crazy drunken fools tumble passed absorbed groups of German tourists. Plug them in or wind their mechanism and see a merry mental dance. After a lentil salad, bananas and 75cl of eau naturale I'm thinking a return to the Majestic to shower and change and perhaps forget the forceful masses undone in Place de la Comedie. The price of everything skints and ain't no joke.
The joke I suppose is on me for letting something meaningless pull my feet away from the solace and happiness of moving ever away from the pain such places as Montpellier represent. I returned to the Hotel realised Spain is only a couple of hours south. I'm sodding off to Girona. I return to sweet simple peaceful city. With sweat pouring down my brow I place my items as neatly within the rucksack
..
Earlier I returned at least 750g of books to the UK snail mail. Le Poste wanted me to pay 10€ for a priority service and had no envelopes for surface mail. With helpful advice from the Lovely liberty design lady I find Gilbert an brilliantly cheap option. 3€50 to despatch at the La Poste conveniently placed opposite. Still have the bottle of Altesse Chardonnay to enjoy with some food once I hit positivity in Spain. Sorry to be so hard on Montpellier, there was a time I would've loved socking it to you: but let's just say I've altered and nolonger need the decedant high streets. I found a shirt to recall the times of 2013. You must have something to recall all the times, bad or good, but it must be random, cheap or expensive is irrelevant; transistional.
I detoured to the Gare Saint Roch to without France early Wednesday morning. I can hear manana shouting my name. Oh Girona! Legendary city. Never thought I would return that way again. From there there are a couple of options to move forward and bring the pilgrimage back within touching point.
It will be much hotter walking across Spain so anything that can reduce the burden of the several hundred kilometres. The walking will need to begin earlier or be broken up regularly to keep my energy levels high and a lot of my stuff will need to return somewhere. I wonder whom I'll see in Puente?
I haven't been inspired into the poetic moi since I degusted from Cahors via Ruth. I noticed my writing is a little laboured and contrite. Added to this dissatisfaction I can't seem to keep far from the toilet here in Montpellier and I also came back via that McDonald's on the Funny Place. You can tell you run out of options when a cheap burger joint becomes the only places to go! The duck place ain't open until Wednesday evening.
Przybylski Gala.
14 rue de la fontaine.
'Ô Reines'
Adoration!
Straight ahead after two glasses of bone dry blanc and as I can't walk by a crepery another bored bite to eat. Finished now. Polished off with a small carafe of Breton dry cider. Le Phare Saint Roch. Good place. Simple but elegant. Bonne Nuit.
The noises. I retired before 9 last night and was left to accommodate a gaggle of giggling girls tittering in french laughter, but then! Monster of the deep at around four someone violently screaming, shouting and banging something: a door or shutter; thud thud thud. Le insanity of large cities. Someone festering while I was left to sweat on this morning. Well I am up and completely away with a café noir two sugars and pain compagne/pays. Bye bye Montpellier.
If I get the chance to return to France in the future I will start from Estaing and continue the Way uninterrupted, but watch out for the cities: you get burned. Left to find café and pain. Was €20 Now €13.50! Sacred Blue! Finally I've left something behind. My first loss of the trip in a city I felt seldom seen: my right flask! Balls. More outlay from commercial France. The closer I get to the gravity of a city the less I am in control of my destiny as so much challenges any want I had. Now to hope I leave on the train to Cartagena, clipping Girona, semi ready? Can't even have a joke with a femme without it being thought of as an error. She dropped a fag, which I didn't see, I saw her pick one off the floor like a tramp and I tried to tell her she was not the kind of tramp you normally see vagrant and picking up tab ends in stations: she comprend nes pas and threw away her twist. Now she returned to ask me if I wanted to have a photo taken? No. Now she understands. Like a lovers we make up and she visits her Docteur in Paris to formulate her Thesis.
Where did the French Gare decide to put the signs to F voie hidden amongst the broken down part of this greasy and distrustful stain? Finally I find my carriage with little time to spare. Well that was a long drawn out and unexciting place. So Glenn I will see you in September, but I hope you find peace before then? This is where my mental gears slip from hardly any French to Spanish, which I get better, but for an ear hitched towards Latin romance tilted. France begrudges Spain any focus and holds its Roman nose aloft.
Lesson Une: don't think about buying anything near to a station it traps the flying kind with its Venus mouthing parts. Two minutes left. I must've bumped my head in the night as I have one bump forming a singular horn. Right of centre: no unicorn am I. We leave Gare Saint Roch.
I leave my seat to follow the trail of Espanyol to the buffet car to break up the moment. Blue sky shines down as we pull into Beziers and I take a chance on café sin leche con gas and agua minerale. Sinking my gnashers into bread I say ollA to Monserret le femme. Nice to sit bonfide alongside and at ease. The distilled Montpellier has been dilutted and watered down debased and clipped; firm to state I liked it non!
Rattling to Narbonnne la Region Languedoc Roussillon we are beneath the simple blue skies. Some sporadic clouds are banked along the mountains filling the northern horizons. Quai Une beyond and Transcereales. An old lady unable to decide where to sink to die; sit down! And some hydrolic means fighting for escape admist a serenade of flamenco guitar folk. Time for headphones and spotify methinks.
The colours of summer spread alongside the ripples of an inland sea Étang while omnipotent sits a nuclear fission fusion facility. A train swaying delivering another sense. While a snow capped pyrenees sits highly thrown and frowningly white. Is this the first mountain my eyes have seen parallel to the first skies.
Moved forward to the space 4c. 8c is too noisy. The piston plunge of that shafted hydrolic lisp drove me further away and an English gal half planking got a giggle. Pic du Canigou.
Ten am and the train crowds up at Figures the border is crossed with the skies, sea and the pyrenees.
Pauline of DC. Via Nigeria. Finchley North London. Swift kiss and then oh Girona! French girls are too mentally superior, excepting Gala. I am happy to spread my cheeks to fart at Montpellier while my cheeks part to smile miles for mon Girona.
Spain
Coca Cola Light next to the University of Girona. I feel invigorated and some fear vanished. From Campus the pulse of Men At Work on a bright spring apres midi. One day becomes two and then another train to Pamplona. Never miss this jewelled city where puta is the first word that escaped my lips in Equity Point a kin of Gothic Point. Is where the stress of Montpellier might vanish in the wake of a migraine. Funny that my brain is shattered by happiness in this hopeful place. Figeac + Cahors - Montpellier + Girona is still a marvelous two zip to the truth.
Funnily I really can't recall the place feeling so insanely beneficial. Something else which has changed. It is true I never looked elsewhere than me and I suppose a limit of the circumstances and my ignorance of age prevented me peeling back my eyelids further than the slight hooks they'd become working at Coors. It is better to be now.
From the coat of the sleeping blessed virgin/vestit de la mare de éu adormida vestry of cloister Porta de Sant Miquel (c1529),
DOM
PRO ÑEPOTIBVS LL MI
DOMINI EPISCOPI
PONTICH ET CA
NONICI DRIS SVL
PITII PONTICH~
QVI ABOUT DIE 10
JVL IJ 1738
Or to chose that jamon pata negra this is a Great city. Walked round the amazing cathedral and passed obvious salesmen on las ramblas flogging shit food to stupid tourist. Porcus Spanish food is so much more spiritual than French. Sorry guys! It's real and red. From gaxpacho to chirixo to tomatox. I felt I deserved that extravagant wine and food a thon. But I enquired after via Naza where a pilgrim who has fallen by the wayside but is knowing it is coming again by Friday. I have yet to meet the wayside man who provides water and sanguine oranges for my dusty throat. Not the same as elegantly packaging it. More packets of pasta than plates of jamon. Porcus is a necessary stop once.
I have too much beard for hot weather it is making the difference. Not untrue to say I'm substituting food for walking. Frugality has vanished with the resulting opulence of my surroundings. The combination is providing more timber. I'm three days from Puente del Reina and am beginning to feel how I did at Conques. I have moments of belief with moments of fear. It might be real tiredness providing a emotional backdrop. My original satisfaction is being dominated by a substantial loneliness I seldom felt on the Aubrac, against my physical backdrop. That was why I went all the way to Montpellier: I am ruminating and it is nothing. I should remember it is meaningless.
I returned from a walk to connect with the Polish couple before they go to eat on their final day of this erstwhile Iberian adventure. On facebook I added the lady I met on the train between Perpignan and Girona. Poor thing was shattered from an overnight battle of trains and young persons. iberia airlines run a budget airline from Santiago and so do Ryanair. Milan is an option, but I hope my pilgrimage will conclude in Saint Peter's Square.
Heavy things have clearly got to go. A slow packet to the UK. Jeans, Jumpers, etc. Thought about a pair of shorts but I might just survive with what I have clearly? I could cut the lowe alpine trousers back to the knees or thigh.
I haven't been to Girona before. I must've seen a minute percentage in 2004. I certainly had too much on my whistling little mind; again; but that was the first crisis; my theory my life is cycles of exploration. I conclude that I can accept 99% of the crap if only occasionally I live uniquely just extra placentally. Another square like Plaça Real Barri Gotic: Plaça de la Independencia. Charming Rosita Original(5.5%) Tarragona. Made uniquely with honey. Blooming eck. Them voices are not mine.
It is a different time, but at some point during the 15th centuries, my antecedents were adventurers, conquistodors or gypsys. My blood is contaminated all through with crimson tides delivering gold, ivory, silk, pepper and people. Trafficking from Cape Cod to Cape York I expect always to find something significantly striking and there for the using. Tonight it is Botifarra de Perol and tomato/garlic bread. Thank you Saint James for putting my feet in this sundre londes.
It's chilled off tonight. It was most hot around five when I was under a volcano considering the devil who lives upon there. The streets were empty for a good reason.
Macebeo is a common grape. The Puglia chef, who was disappearing to Furetventure Majorca explained that must be a Jewish grape as the word was Jewish. He knew so much for a common chef de range; like I he had only been catering a short time.
Mamon Bebe explain loco senorita who you are, were, most becoming in Londres town circa 2008/09, so I can be captivated in a smile and some deep truths. Swallows shoot the free breeze with immature Sparrows deciding on whom to follow. Follow the high wiring activists. Whither go I?
Second, and final regional cervesa, is immensely malty deep and mocha chocolate with hazelnuts beautifully present. Home-made black beer; take a hike Guinness. Alcover hazelnuts are a speciality of Tarragona (www.rosita.cat). An. Other Rosita/Rosetta I shouldn't always associate like thus in my mind. The links are all there to recall the chains I became; yet dealt with on my dark passage through Wetherby. This beer is brilliant. I think the Chardonnay may have to wait again!
So walking back from a number of truly great Catalan gentlemen. Viva la Girona. Tomorrow sort out my way. I can see why this might be the happiest city in Spain: josef and antonio. Is Spain like a family who really fell out with one another? The crunch has got hurt if it rips a county apart.
Spain/Catalunya I love you.
Woke up with the departure of the friendly happy Polish couple at 5am and bravado of a screaming drunk in the Girona early morning dusk. Time for breakfast and my eyes and ears to blown away by the anger inherent in the world currently. 24hr news is absolutely the most depressing symtom of the modern world. Whether is comes across in Catalans or Spanish or English or French it is a fundamental wrong of our society. I wonder what really happens in this world that isn't coordinated for interplay of media. There ain't no such need for a travel report; that man's brains were running from his ears!
Sonar in Barcelona. There was once a time I was desperate to attend there, miss kittin et al. Puente la Reina has more ability to appeal to me. People are detached this morning; except Naza. Insular Japanese and fragmented man. The sun is always shining perhaps they forget?
Met Edward on the terrace of the hostel last night. He's off on his bike third day running; to us both England is waning and Europe is more real than Euro Sceptics would have us believe?
0% sucre! Brilliant you get to eat toxic chemicals instead of sugar? How about I stab nine inch nails in my eyes?
Naza changed the dynamic she is a great hostess, but the scissor sisters? No! Hell NO! 24hr news or Scissor Sisters; your snip.
Vueling or Ryanair after? Is Emeli Sande a Yazz of the 21st century? Lots of questions. Very few answers. This is the 21st century at it's least true. Shakira has only one voice and a pitbull? I couldn't hate modern culture more. I was closer to stillness and the answer pumping my lungs and being frozen beyond senses and drenched like the people noah left behind; he was cruel as he never returned for anyone else but let them perish in his arrogance; and he put animals before humanity.
Modern cities never get finished; there isn't a clear path for them. They grapple for immortality but are singed to a ball to be stripped of any universality before midnight. What happened in the bronze age and dark ages maybe occurring to our age?
I return to cabin fever Jane and freedom rock. A few twists and turns between Plaça and Estacion; some difficulty with paying with my various borrowing means, but only one more day away from death apealling distraction. Quintessential world why do you not appeal to me at all? I thought my feet smelled but it is the youthful Spainyd crunching cornflakes in his wake. Not delicate. Chef guy leaves for Mahon and I go to wash.
Girona, you took my glasses! An exchange of goods. My sun glasses; Ray-Ban's roadsters. Gone this morning. I packed up again. More needs washing than is for wearing; I dug out my shorts, worn, and shirt, clean. If they weren't from prior to cornwall 2010 I would be maybe aggreived a little, but they're not essential. What did we do in the sun before shades? A hat. Slip Slop Slap; no mention of sunnies on channel nine! The Polish girl left a facial scrub that my pores were screaming at me to use! My face is polished up a sheen.
Dolce Cafè for an espresso that is so thick my spoon defies logic! It's another blue skies day in the heart of Girona. The bustle under the cover of these arched, covered, side walks. All Spain hides before the sun paralyzed open spaces and a Catalan flag hangs sagging nonchalantly in a suggestion of a breeze.
With selfless suggestion I set two Canadian darlings feet on the road to Sitges and Sonar free Spain. They flee south and weighed down Finlander took a troubled turn north and I tried to warn her away if possible; her head was collapsed inward not onward. Tomorrow I disappear before Helios reaches his zenith!
Hey Daniel you are a beardy weirdy. It's strikingly obvious! But I have a bolt breaking from my temple; stage right like Richard the Third I have a hunch I suppose. Kava clicks in! My food mission is to provide something substantial but from Supermercardo.
The modern world is flipping me crazy and making me forget what things I am bringing. Like that time in The Kimberley Klub where I left my only gold ring, sapphire et al, snake eating its tail coiled but to vanish into the Broome interior. Someone somewhere will be looking at that thinking who forgot it and why? But there is no reason.
Then I buy black cherry tomatoes from a vendor; sweet. I return to wash them clean and pleasantly perambulate towards the other Church of Girona I shall visit. On my left I pass Nespresso strangest of all coffee houses. Chomping and consuming them as elevensies; 0.65¢.
I cross the bridge nearest the Sant Felu to the sounds of German and Polish voices to see if grass still grows from the unfinished stone upon; it does. Swarms of million midges cross the bridge with the tones from the east. To me the churches are not exhibits of a past world but a living and breathing part of now. The tourist amber has arrived to explain away any personal conceptions of the purpose of the focal transit. Before religion there was God. Before this church there was still a reason to reside here a while. With 1€01¢ I conclude my mission to come here again. I fear Girona is beyond help of sinking beneath the feet of a tribal trance. Left turn after beacon bright German lasses and come away purple virtues figues, around three inches, to cleanse my soul in water still in Saint Felix font and faucet running to wash figs on Carrer de L'Argenteria. Thank you for this different direction today. The clear yet bright way is back within me. I turn a corner and see the end of IT in sight: chuggers/charity muggers.
Between an alfresco afternoon tapas and wine those boomerang Ray-Ban's returned. Knew I shouldn't fret! If my water bottle could come south of its own motivation I would be complete again! Self made is often ideal, but I am unable to make this of myself. For a tetra prisma Solfrío Gazpacho bring it on! Better than any restaurants made option in the UK. There is a tension between the tomato, bread and olive oil which could make a bleeding Mary?
So I popped the cork on the terminal Cahors vin and the last alcohol to touch my lips prior to the next walking section of the pilgrimage. Then a siesta for fragmentation. Woken by Harley Davidson screaming up Ginesta at 5pm. It drags to have the afternoon under the volcano broken by such an arrogant machine. The other thirds of the vin I hope to share out in equal measurements. Some angry Spanish TV opera plays out over the heads of those of us truly detached from another reality.
I checked the forecast for Puente la Reina and cloudy and 19 is superior to 31 and azure! Could I physically walk under the sky with a sun beating down forever? Some thing obvious says no!
The Italian chef leaves for Spanish Balearics and departs his food deposited for me. So another night al fresco as the sun sinks on the Costas. He's going to sleep in the aeroport awaiting his transit; internal flight a 7am. I wish him success. He managed to sneak a sleep from the helpful receptionists. Quick wander around the block to the Mercat Municipal. Tonight I'll buy my combustibles for yonder venture.
Gosh those blue eyes and another stunning shoulder. If I cared about you-know-what, but it all feels like far too much effort. Not like the last time I left England for an extended period some years ago. I like the beauty but I have resigned myself to being a quite solitary man.
The Altesse 2011 Chardonnay has been consumed and so the episode beginning in Cahors is truly over. Again I am on the pilgrimage; Thursday 15th June, but its memory will sing me to sleep. Edward the English cyclist is still in Girona to enjoy pinchos and cervesa for another week. My last drink today was a fruity shandy in Porcus.
Thank you transitional Girona for not quite disappearing into the tourist vacuum until I have left touching the places twice in my seldom life.
Camino Frances
Another crazy night of booming voices, late arrivals and plenty of stomping feet; mopeds and motorbikes scretching; guitars wailing, gulls foiling; car alarms bawling; Spanish hombres singing, shouting and slagging; me flailing the dark! This ain't no place to be able to sleep through the chorus and awaken raring to take my seat; plaça catalunya. Wil.I.am and Justin Bieber 7am Girona oh yeah! I'm sat as far as I could get. Why is it so mono and unreal. Katie Perry: I'm taking my stuff and going. My pelerin pendant has vanished and I almost in my haste left no. 2 flask. Who is it writes and produces such dreadfully awful and empty popular music? It is so bad and evil that we're being subjected to either 24hr terror on the airwaves or transmission in one corner or 24hrs mindlessly unmusical frantic gibberish. I depart as soon as I consume a watery coffee and confide to the night security man how insane the music would make me. As soon as I can take it I leave to journey towards my next destination. If I need walk some 500 kilometres what rate with the effort and the perspiration can I expect. Girona station is clean and cool and expectant; forty minutes to ponder the missing pendant. It is meaningless and just another thought that is an necessary concern. I'm hearing my other voice! The anger it pursuades me to ponder and project. No worries. Barcelona Sants next stop 8:10. The fm radio plays the look of love: the look of lust? Under those trees? Uno douo Tres. Control points to take me to a vast cathedral of a building housing platforms 13, 11, 12 and 14, left to right. A blank canvas; this must've been expensive to build. Every word I expect duplicate for Spanish and Catalan: which still sounds almost Spanish. If the Geordie nation rose would we bi-wire our stations too? A high speed train to Barcelona, continuing on to Madrid. I asked for the cheapest option which I'm sure AVE isn't? Away from the train of a thousand blankeyed stare or impossibly minor frown. Passing through Estacion Sants and feeling a full neck unreal. Forgotten earring on the marbled floor. Another queue for access control; it is crazy world in all its finery. At 2€80 for red bull I almost forgot! I hastely returned to the fridge. Something rotten, unfeeling and greedy inhabits the places we have to form into queues to be controlled. My card didn't go through which was a mighty relief. Some vaguely Celtic music is pumped into coche 7. I'm in coche 6. But I managed to walk passed it without realising. It seems what's displayed on the exterior of the train isn't what is on the interior. While we travel west I listen to an old classic - Half Man Half Biscuit/Back In The DHSS; doesn't suit the landscape but does my mood. There is something essential about Trumpton Riots leaving Lledia. Seven is Six. We're still lacking a proper transformer; it was a dodgy transformer. This journey is longer than any I've had so far. I'm very removed from the pace of the first leg. Ahead of me I have two thirds and I am ready to begin the trail again. Useful to know that one jar of lentils and a packet of chorizo satisfied me for less than €2. Now coming to Pamplona; no map, no guide, no where to stay and not a euro left. Today I spent nothing so far and probably no more than a €8 yesterday. Need to get straight to puente la reina by a simple means. There is probably also a church in Pamplona that will set my feet upon the correct path: first option.
Stepped off the train and took the scenic route to the pilgrim stop before the cathedral. A local man in not one word of English delivered to my nights accommodation Jesus Y Maria. A superb 120 bed locale with many anglophonic voices. Showered after the long boring, tedious and absent train journey. Seven euros. Many fingered Bayern keys a Bach fugue to help us souls unwind and untie the knots of sleeplessness. First I heard him inI the distance calling to help us through what had begun to pain. I've come along the way. It was a dramatically hot traipse to find a little shadow from the huge sweats I was drenched.
I'm really feeling very bloated. Something I have eaten is passing through me like wind. It might be all the fruit I ate in Girona making its presense felt? Tomato overdose. That's me for the evening. Up and away early. Eat on the hoof. Beat the sun to residence at Puente la Reina. Some guy said it took him 28 days to do this part which would be around double the time I walked from Puy en Velay.
Going to forget this today. I need to read and tear myself away from it!
In Pamplona we're in four rows, 2 deep on either side of what was once a church, couple of doors down from the main Cathedral. You are assigned a bed in order and once there are no more beds? Keep walking. There are 28 beds in 14 bunks on this right wing and the same is repeated above me and on the left hand side; roughly 120 beds. Plenty of space in a cloistered space to dry clothes. Jesus Y Maria.
The people I've briefly spoken to are a variety of ethnicities, and the age group stretches further too. My wind is not really in my sails today so I've planned what I'm wearing tomorrow, but I don't feel alive or vital yet. I listened to the Bayern master pianist without really caring what he was playing, or how well. I thought he'd said he was from Bolivia not Bavaria. I am off. Switched off. My stomach sighing is concerning me as this is a community dorm and I can't go letting off steam without a few sour looks. It seems perfectly reasonable for me to go the John to let her rip?
Finished the day with The Smiths/Meat Is Murder - remastered. The Japanese gentleman in the bed next to me looks to be struggling to come to terms with what he has discovered in Pamplona so plays on his hand console. Cheers Morrissey for reminding me why I shouldn't be eating all this Jamon!
...
Hola¡ it was perfect. Set off at 6:30am to reach the way. After a few challenging miles I realised my other mind had been uncovered again. There is always the road to help you to be relieved. Leaving the hostel with Liz from Minesota we started the day before any sign that the city had set up to way-lay pilgrims. We motored as they had opened their left eye and yawned returning to a magic slumber.
We each have our manner of celebrating arrival; mine to compose. I hear the sweet flute/pipe music composed to give joy to us. Coming from an Irish heart so true. I left my soliloquy as Coleridge did his. But my ventricle was being tugged by another fugue.
Oh the laugh of coming down a mountain, blown by mother nature's zephyr and the diet I am on returning more of the sulfur urgently back over the Pyranees to blow preemptive collapsing the other me in a mustard yellowed death.
House of the Rising Sun at hotel rural Bidean where two euros gets you an eatery worth any amount of early morning break free. Tortilla and cervesa. I am back in the passion. I was tempted and quested a while. I was not broken. Here in Puente la Reina I hear canaries to absolve my doubts. Playing us a sequined dance beyond its very size.
Again I connected with my Huckleberry from on the top of Sierra de Erreneiga. To have his free love unrestricted and unrestrained is a foe never to challenge nor question. Have patience gentle soul; though I be far away ... I still think of you every day.
Spain is closed for all of this afternoon and Sunday. Ready for another day on this road from 6am ;-).
Cerveza from a vending machine: a buck? Nice idea! San Miguel not so hot, but it is ok? Sat in the Jardin with Seanan playing scales; or is that another person? Cathal reads Mort in the sun and I have another blister on the same toe as on the Aubrac. Nana stretches her left leg in the shade. A couple of hours and I'm tired, but maybe also full of gay fever. Yep. My nose is gay, my eyes are gay and my throat is gayer too. Listening to the auberge I'm wakened from my drifting via Australian voices. Which is damn odd. I feel a kin of that voice. New Zealand too.
A homeless man I rewrite his worth. I substitute on for at. He lives 'on' the street ... What arrogance. Now he knows where he lives on Inglasis. Drops his pencil in the gutter. Drunk as a Skunk.
I think of all the ciders outside of the West Country Asturias is closest. Good truth. Apples. Sour. Cloudy.
Off back to sleep well. Really great being back on the way.
...
Mad Spaniards coming into the only place to get a coffee fix prior to 7am. I had an espresso I couldn't pay for. So I didn't. I fled as fast as my pack would allow, ducking into a ATM at Santander. The way was fairly gentle to begin, but eventually the random cobbled and dusty track, the distance and the time of day began to wear heavily. Usual bananas on the hoof and a stop for Coffee and Tortillas and you keep going if you want the race to be over by noon. Now in aubergue municipal Estella and time for that washing to be processed and time to flake out!
I thought I was flying when up ahead are the same Irish couple had already reached Lorca: where I had to stop for a couple of moments. Once I set off again for the final 7.5 kilometers my pace was turgid. I stopped to put on my shades and hat; from behind flew another warning. The devil of the Magrade Aubrac come to put me under strain; you'd played your tricks on me before so I hung back perfectly aware of his guile and cunning. None of your conveniently placed traps gave me any troubles. I have suffered you already. Go and chase another one back to hell; I'm on my own and happy to soldier on!
You can't book in advance and the sun bleeds you so it is a race from 6am to get to your bed for the evening. I stopped outside the parish auberge but passed up a donativo for this clean, but eventually busy large refugio.
Snakes in the grass go wild in the country, at around caza de reserva where the frogs were croaking, he passed me and then watched my onwards journey. We bothered each other but briefly. I saw some very old vines just near to the first village after Puente la Reina: Mañeru. I ventured to get groceries in Estella took a turn round the centre and found a bodegas artisanale. Me thinks €8 for old vine garanacha isn't too bad to confirm my feelings. Laderas de Montejurra, Emiliovalerio. Back to consume my unvaried lentil and pea from a can with a carrot of the pickled sort. Je suis le Gourmand, Non? Well the vin rouge knocks panties off all wine since Cahors; nice action Navarra old vine Garanacha. One glass and then a siesta it is 16:04 here but might be 14:04 really. That is what the sundial says. That is what the sun says. That is why it was so hot at ten, eleven and twelve: bastards! European central time fucks with your mind. I'm now overheating and can only wear my gaudi Canadian speedos. Sod the lowering of the tone! I've just walked 3.5kms in escorchio. German sex tourist time? Boo Hoo!
Distinct lack of energy: we're all zapped like tortured flies. Everyone is together alone. Some somnobulant readers, sleepers and I drawing freestyle. Now wolfing down pasas sin pepitas and glass duo of garanacha/ grenache noir. Two danes have heads in fiction. Partneren/Khans Skat. We're all in a trance; bewitched by the croaking and chirping. Adios amigos? Frau hacks at bread with a blunt spoon. We are lack want. None move very quickly if at all; it strikes me it is some opium den.
Quick tour of the ville but even at 7pm it is shouting it is hot; 30°.
Quick hello bueno to two female skinheads from Torino, both femme? One has very bad knees. Everyone has a bad mechanism lazy city walking doesn't require attention to the position of feet, knees and hips. I learnt this in France. All these guys out of Saint Jean Pied Pont are suffering terribly. We walk without marching correctly.
Fini. Got some bananas, prunes, figs and a can of Coke Zero to skip along the Camino by 6:30am. Bed for hayfever remidy and to read. Alarm at 5:45am. Packed and I'll see you tomorrow fellow pilgrims?
Awake upon the merry dawn chorus earlier and before you sleep too much. Looking up the stars still shine as I shoulder my pack and begin this 29 kilometres. 5:45.
Walk before the dawn arrived in the last stop for nine kilometres. Breakfast stop. Wait for the local bar to open for bocodillo and cafe.
I set off with a Spanish lady, French couple and Danish priest. Maybe he's going too fast. I said see you soon. My legs need solace at 700 metres. Between Monjardin and Los Arcos it is an unbroken 9 kilometres. Petit dejourner now until 8:30.
I feel insane! Finally reached Los Archos... That road went on forever. Stopped. Thought of stopping for a while, but the sun wasn't out... Don't chance your luck! So I pick up two huge oranges and a Danone yogurt drink.
From 5.7kms you can see two villages and I sure hope the closer is our bed for today? As it gets closer I feel that the bastards have led me here just to inform me my stop is another few leagues off.
Facking buggered! 1400 at Torres del Rio so too far after yesterday. Not as hot but this is the best tin of garbanzos and cerveza I've ever had! As far as I'm concerned you can take your stinking Camino and stick it ... Until mañana! The cloud has moved in from the north and west since I got Casa Mariela. Come on! RAIN!
Weather has changed. Finally! Rain and grey skies, alternating with sunny spells. Nice small village on a hill side to hang in today. Not in the same brutal expectant for the morrow. Stopping at Logrono - famous for La Rioja. First Cahors now I'm in La Rioja: they'll be no complaints about the wine, however the queso campagna is very average. Must go out of my way to find a special cheese to stick with a robust but yielding vino tinto. What more do you need? Brebis?
Hung about until seven for our pelegrino supper. Three courses, bread, wine and water for only €10. Pleasures of conversations too. Bo, elisa, guy. A dane and two bretons. My broken French is exactly like 'allo 'allo policeman. Not too impressed with the green label Rioja; the lower levels of that wine are using the DOC moniker, but they're not more than vin du table. Rioja needs to re-assert it's expectations and firmly say no the wine calling itself Rioja!
The ball of my left foot feels crushed under the weight of my bag. Let's see what tomorrow brings for a later walk? I've noticed everyone has some injury from their ventures on the way.
The laughter of last night made me realize there has been something missing on the Way since I left Cahors. Frequently you miss the obvious thing, but I think I maybe found some persons with whom to find humour in our adversity. It is not a challenge to walk to Santiago. Too much walking always tests my resolve.
The earth gives and never takes away. We take from the earth but never give.
Today I reduced into tears at 8:44am by Animal Collective and my mood of reflections. I saw curls in the forests upon nether hills.
Do you believe they put a man on the moon drifts to me from yonder workers citroen and I come to Viana. No hurry. Time for a reflex break: lomo, chorizo, figue and naraja. A full flask before the final flat leg in the plane leading to eros and Logonos. I exchange pleasantries with Kristoff from Switzerland. He departs before I finish my fix, I fix my gear and finally flee Viana; vitally.
Final 6.8kms from Viana were tough. Forth day of Camino de Compostella; one hundred clicks down only six hundred to go?
Crossed the final stage with Cho of Seoul. Picked up a new pendant to replace what was forgotten off the path. I've been toying with walking in all white. I'm having my John Lennon/Jesus Harry Christ delusion. From a hello to a friendly chained sorrowful guard doggy to the pelegrino welcome. I am now changed, bocadillo filled and second glass of wine, blanco and a much needed excellent crianza martinez alesanco 2010. 80/20 tempranillo Y garnacha.
I found all the signs said Snap out of tourist aubergue mode. I'm donated to donativo.
Bed. Unwind. Spoke briefly to our volunteer host. She asked me if there was anything I needed. After snoozing, with a heavy downpour filling the ancient streets of Logrono and washing away stress. I find napping on a rainy afternoon doubly engaging.
Elisa and her father have found the bed next to mine for the night. There are a limited number of beds, but there are also a number of matts on the first floor. The bell of the large church sounds down the quarters and the host comes to beckon me for a hot drink and biscuits.
I leave the tranquility of my bed for a table of loud discussions, but I find ease in camomile and 24 tiles depicting the life of Saint Vincent. I know that there is less reason to the Way than I perceive others demanding it be. An American lady wanted to come with me when I went for my sandwich and detour but I wanted to be alone. She seems so intensely loud and wants everyone to hear her stories. Why do I want to end this now. We don't need to fill every silence with speaking. It's like a film contiunally interrupted by commercial breaks. So I am aloof?
Religion is flawed if throughout life you have to continually openly discuss life through a prism divine? Release religion; chose humanity: it is less devisive.
Put on a mac and off to find tapas and sidra. Txili. Manic Americans and Philipinos discussion drives me into the long and directly vertical rains. Trust your feet. Where tomorrow? Decide then. Young Irish pilgrims question why I maintain my need for Tapas so I questioned they haven't tried it. The dormitory is like a barracks, bored on a rainy day. Go out and sample paprika loveliness. First is tripe and black sausage Callos and then Jamon. And out.
Stoned Canadians in a donativo. Elise and Hamish playing chess with playing cards and scrunched up red/white paper. Food smells good. Couldn't find anywhere to purchase wine/cider/beer before passing back through many streets where the rain is persistant.
Not feeling Logrono; too superficial.
Flies flee to Mass and I can not conjugate or conflagrate. Some part of me wanted to help with the food preparation, but I felt mindful of the noises on my mind. I feel like I am in the tower of Babbel; disassociated and I want to scream at myself. Too many cooks. Waiting for the breaking of the bed. What happened to Bo?
The devil is in our midst and he is Canadian. Stoned beyond redemption and suddenly he's the chef de cuisine. I'm hating the way my experience has been altered by one unaware individual. He is meaningless. I must remember that he is meaningless. He has disturbed me twice now. In both large Cities: Pamplona and Logrono. So much I just want to go home. People have played up to his appallingly bad meal. Flavourless and over cooked. Second time I've needed to flee the dinner table at the conclusion of the sweet course. Oh why! Those guys from over the Atlantic must make themselves heard. They're insanely insignificant to Europe.
With a better morning and rice pudding for breakfast I run run run to autobus estacion for to out-distance Peter, Amish and two Americans. thanks to Claire from iglesia de santiago el real for helping me. and also Nicole and Antonio at breakfast for bringing the better feeling back. if I see Peter, Hank or Bernadie again in this life! I realise within the 1% are 99% for whom I am also disenfranchised from. 1% of 1%. I am so so alone. if I see the devils again I will trip them up in their paths; they'll roll in the gutter with all the other forgotten turds; I am arrogant!
San Domingo de la Calzarda then 1.5 kilometres to Grañon will put me away from these bandits. Did this same problem always happen on the way?
Something tells me I should call my mother today.
When I consider the labeling that was occurring and the generalisations that those guys, even a good Catholic lady when condescending to me being an English Anglican; when I am not!
Four Swedish ladies are returning to Malmo/Stockholm via Bilbao. I would prefer the gabble and babbling of foreign tongues to the assaults of a madder tongue spreading like disease from the USA and Canada. Relief! Another day.
The detour to Montpellier has left me £100 out of budget for that misconception. I assumed a donativo would stand me. But now I'm back on the path of refugio donativo my oath is to reach a destiny on the 12th July. I hope Glenn is ok. I wish him happiness until I see him again; one of the too good guys.
Come together 0.01%.
Bus stations are blackened chewing gum and diesel stained places where my eyes see only the dead or the dying. Coffinsare autobuses and undertakers are Drivers. Leaden glass a veil too opaque to long for; immortality in a steel mauselleum. The Usher's sweep away tobacco not roses. My hackney, blackened, arrives a herse to clean away my indifferences.
Another good truth comes of busily busing the distance after those last 4 days walking beyond my skin, teeth and torn muscles.
Jim Broadbent has played the same character three times.
I found my seat, spoke briefly to an Australian father and son, we discussed the forthcoming Ashes, why Aussie cricket is so dire and how the AFL is playing out. Then I got severe motion sickness. It took my until the WC of the cathedral in San Domingo, and vacant retching, to come round.
As fast as I could I turned my feet along the 2hour journey to Grañon.
How to accommodate the crowds? How to be always the few not the many? 0.01%. Many Italia. Beautiful locale which reminds me of the Tours Anglais in Aubrac. But instead of two Frenchmen and I ... Sixty Italians, one Danish, one South African, eighty Spanish and I hear an Israeli? What! I am reminded of the road to calvary by Bruegal. Yes we are all individuals!
A beautiful space but I feel crammed into a low celling and between all the young voices and piano playing adolescents I can't cope. This part of the Camino is too rammed. I must find a way that links me with freedom and existence. I asked if I could sleep in the second overflow and now a way across the road listening:
If 6 was 9. Free. I don't care. 0.01%.
Tried to pay my Orange account, but I am unable. Usual paper self rearing it's head mid to late in the month. One bit of administration for June/July. Hope my family can help me in the UK?
I know I must overcome this feeling of being alone amongst a legion of Pelegrinos. What kind of goal is being lost like a silent voice in the choir of disorganized cacophony.
I am not alone thinking the young 'pelegrino' are crazy. I collected my micro towel. I will breakfast and away. I dreamt a few days ago about JFK coming to visit me and a friend. I tried to warn him of his fate, but he wouldn't listen. This was in Pamplona. It is possible this was a warning to me that my way would become my mental assassination. I should have listened to Serge in Cahors. I understood so little around that table, but word of the road Primativo cropped up every night of the four I camped out. I am not on the Way because of a Movie!
I am laid out on my floor for the night; which is fine, but the music reminds me of Hari Grishnas in the Movie Airplane: clap happy. This is the stuff of insane dreams.
So from crazy Canadian to even crazier Israelies. This is my test. I'm failing too. I had to ask the man to stop playing the discordant piano. It's another day of inescapable noises. I must come across as a bore or a kill joy. I explained I had come on the way to escape noise. He apologized and now they sit around the table rattling off vino tinto. This will be a repeat of last night, but with a piano, a Californian playing a pipe with no tune and dancing without timing. One of the Israelites draws. Better. Contrast inner space with outer. I will do likewise.
It changed. My challenge of the circumstance made this a more fruitful occasion. From a moment of calm drawing reflection to preparation of food for a simple potage and songs from all nations. I sung on Ilkley Moor Bar'tat but could only remember one verse! How disappointing! They said my food was the best on the Camino, but I thought it was too like soup and not enough textures. But then I didn't start it! I just made sure that the chorizo was done properly. Enough wine to sleep for a while.
Eventually I calmed out to the ends of my toes. The Israelis guys were fine once we got into a conversation. People should always be given a second chance. Jesus picked them up in seconds. A taxi delivered them to John the Baptist Auberge. A miracle! We discussed my feeling that I need a quiet peace in my mind and I explained why I felt panicky when arrived and all they did for an hour was play an out of tune honkie tonk Les Dawson esk.
The unorthodox knitting and unity of individuals is what I think the orthodox 0.99% needs. I wish them well. The stamp I have been getting to show my credentials is pride or vanity? This is something I am unsure of. A badge like membership of a supreme society? A get out of jail free card? What is this ritual I see all around me?
It is getting closer to owl stretching time; night John-Boy.
Poorly German girl coughing her lungs up most of the night. I slept fitfully after 4am anyway.
Ever since Cahors a theory has developed I found my freedom in the terrors the way found for me between Puy and Aubrac. Something singular and significantly pastoral.
Just a tidy seventeen kilometres today. Puts me at two stages beyond the Canadian devil. Stopping - Finished for today. Donativo 3 on the bounce. In a wilderness of persons I escaped alive and with wit.
Busy bee. Couple of beers with Daniel from Barcelona; father Liverpool and mother Catalan. After popping to the supermecardo cooked a paella with red peppers, onions, rice, chorizo picante, pancetta, white wine, herbs provence, salt. Sat down with a stick of bread and el coto crianza 2008. Legendary supper. Shared the fayre with 5 others. I hardly know their names. Did a meal unlike Wednesday night. Not lacking depth and textures. Great Vino makes a significant difference.
Helene, one of our hosts, enjoyed the supper while Pierre emphasises the need to donate €7. I was hoping you weren't a vegan and doesn't drink wine. How can I improve on this? I will leave a substantial donativo.
Extreme bump to my head. This happens verily every time I get to a new Auberge/Hostel. Can't be hastled to shower again. It's obsessive for people walking miles sweating constantly. Changed into summer attire as the weather alters to warm with a pleasant breeze. A swarm of school boys comes onroute to the sweet shop. I pass through with Nina before the plot of the movie is lost in translation. Between Daniel and the winebar owner we discuss via Daniel: from Barcelona, the objectivity/subjectivity of wine interpretations. I am blind folded and tested. I found the wine beyond me unamazing but how can you say this when you expect the wine is something very special indeed. Well I thought I had dry white, a light red maybe rosado and another white. Truth is they were all instant blends of white and red. My leaning towards rosado was correct-ish, but I really wasn't thinking that opaquely. None was so significant. I explained that in Britain we are really fortunate to be able to try the whole worlds wines. In La Rioja it is Tinto or Blanco from around these parts. The Rueda Vedajo was still outstanding and this is where my ideal was coming. Mouth full of rocks - Les Silex.
Early to bed after another brilliantly simple supper. Asparagus Blanco and olives in a salad, two small glasses of vino tinto(€1.30 a bottle) table wine. Nina still has the dry dusty cough that repeatedly brings you out of low level sleep. Finally slept until 5am.
Looked about the town in the late afternoon and think the town is like a wheel with spoke like arteties coming to the central hub. Belrado Parish Albergue is a converted theatre; you prepare your supper on the stage and then consume it in the stalls. Loud fairweather Italian Pilgrims in one room. Things are changing in my head. Got this feeling that this pilgrimage is coming to an end with the floods of persons breaking from vents in the crust; I'll hit Burgos then ... See the longest day in Finisterre! Traveler on the A1.
The convictions I have to end it somewhere a conclusion can be made. I dissolved in France and then I am unconnected in Spain with the symbolic and shambolic. I will place my singular tent at the end of the world and watch the sun take all souls to the land of the Valinor; I am the last of the fellowship in Gray Havens. The curtain fell on my journey last night with Daniel: a reflection of what I had decided my pilgrimage meant to me. The clouds hang low and heavy as we come up to the plateau. My mind broke free of these chains. I have the 21st to reach the sea. A final supper. As the mists clear Yorkshire and Europe are behind me now. I will end of On the Road and the end of my world as the dusky sun sinks into the blackened ocean.
I found my way; monomania. Autobus, walk to Plaza Espania. No. 43. Estaciòn FF.CC. Flying through huge Burgos. The man throwing stones at my feet close to Rock has carped and collided kharkis, but will not prevent me finding my own simple end. Two days from a shower and I start to smell my own residue; bring the brine and Jesus Nuñez is a cold saviour. Through tenements and absent blocks; blankly blanketed and blackened columns force me beyond all red lights, crossings and sneakered feet. Bring me away to so distant a Estaciòn. Back in macro molecular blindingly unhappy nowhere station. My wait and journey will cost most of the day. In the middle of the centre completely nowhere. No wifi. No shower. Back to horrible egocentric and monoblocular Burgos to eat, drink and kill time. Shrug my shoulders into the end of grey and barren multi directionless conduit and conceitedly unhelpful adif. Gibberish. Cold welcome. Ticker tape states bienvenidos a la estaciòn "Burgos Rosa de Lima": which without English or eye contact is untrue. So I must wait five minute before it fades away.
Bleeding day for swinging fifty separatists ways. So what was Burgos? Now I am under the steps of ya catedral and looked for post Camino fun. No one knows what is glimpsed by yon travellers. Is there an alt dive for us at the end of someat. My vivid dreams of france are no longer just a mistress. I used to dream with a certain almost reality; I would just accept that like or not I had been half way along that northern coast; along and alone.
I'm I wrong to have played out my first pilgrimage my way? Some have helped me deal post Aubrac; yet most enough not ken? Hello haloed Santiago. I have eaten a lot of canned heat. Tonight, Duncan, I ate calamari from San Xoãn and part took alberino. Dead. And seldom significant. I am off to drink my death tomorrow. Sign off. Nice squid rings too.
Mexicans 3ing a five piece. Musical weekend. I need to see within the catedral. It is some end. All this pinchos and minimal vino. I couldn't be more emotionally lost. Bit of me finds muzak somedays apart.
One o'clock and I am full of rose rouge wondering what to see that saint germain.
Santiago is a trap for the arrogant. This morning I left my apartment of the evening. The previous evening didn't really let me in. A random lady took me to her h'erbergment where I slept still in my secure sleeping bag, €20, I am reminded of the old lady in Split and my grateful slumbers. There is no silence on the street where you find Oficina del Pelegrino. This was not the conclusion I had thought I expected. Some things are simply too good to be true. Once my credentials are stamped I'll away to the coast. Rituals gather dust away in the less colliding sight and only pilgrims queue in line waiting to stamp their Créanciale where the mind lacks it's own relief; and It feels like a post office queue but the voices are bold and trancelike. I follow after. Coffee strains my mind and I feel utterly sick of the untruth even here so I leave the untruthful for a throne in which to leave my Pelegrino hopes. I stood back in that false discord for a brief thought. Coffee, Churas and Paracetamol calls me to prepare for noon exit to the end of the world: where I will bathe.
Dead fish are going with the flow following the final expectant steps of the Camino. Me, half filled of figs and green/purple tomatoes, fly beyond the clouds and fight against the turmultous tide.
All of the recent conversation back to England makes it clear in my mind that I am just about mentally needing to return to brisker Blighty; for a little while, and I am feeling utterly tired, even though my feet are getting better, oh for just one nights sleep without other's snoring, etc.; I am exactly knackered; hazy brained: something like poison crept up into my cerebil capacity after Cahors.
The short walk to Cape Fisterra felt indecisive. My mind wasn't on subject; I caught myself worrying a little about what to do now? A walk on ferry might be potentially cheapest from Santander if I head up to A Coruna. Something is suggesting walk home from Cornwall; another day and currently Rome feels like a crazy concept to the saggly tired eyed me, but I said I would get there to meet Jason for a glass of wine on 13th July if possible. Really I would love that consequence of random perabulations if there was a cheap means of traveling and staying there.
The end of the world is a great place to conclude the ninth chapter and recall all the fantastic food, wine and the cast of thousands I met across Europe. Some point has been reached in my head and tomorrow I'm heading north and towards the sights and smells of Camino Inglés; tonight I eat like a king somewhere honest and full of locals and stick with Albarino. Shouldn't all those guys in Fisterra finishing the Camino be more up-beat and not so glumly melancholy; everyone has done so well. On to Chapter 10 and another glass of Albarino; there is a festival to summer over the hill.
Randomly the sounds of a Brazilian drum band brought me to playing on Cervantes and a flood of some amazing memories with Steven Fitzhugh in Gracia, Barcelona when we danced like part of a tribe until dawn; bliss.
Some of the chapters of On The Road are like playlists for 1950s Jazz. There was a time all the names meant nothing now I am rather interested in Lester Young and George Shearing. But I will look into that blowing later! Girl with bright green eyes from Latvia Anse; Tygger tygger burning bright as the sun westerlings.
Walking off the main road down from the Faro I sought something else, but it was a complete dead end; stupid bastard! I was sure that part of the path would return me alone from the bus shoving crowds. You might love the view and find some persons there touching reality, however 99% are disgusting from the nape to their toes. Time to fiesta like it is 1999%!!!
When the sea sits 20 foot away: Always eat of the sea! O Pirata Frank(saint francisco) always creates a miracle from the deep blue. If you come to Fisterra then forget everywhere else. I have yet to find any any old vine Albarino; that maybe just Portugal? Refreshing cleaning vino blanco: just dry and zero label spotting; a better twist of seaside town. Wide as Sargo! What a delicate and lovely seasonally tasty fishy with a home made Albarino! Fine. Galicia is fine! Everywhere but Montpellier was/is unconcerningly truer as I reacted to textures, palates and tools. Heart and soul seek closure so should I carry on?
The distant noises of the summer solstice celebration came back over the hill and woke me from my deeply comfortable sleep. Something good sang me to sleep at just gone ten and so I missed another youthful celebration: I would've danced the fandango in my lean and handsome years with the same enthusiasm and freedom that conquering the Aubrac meant to me now. Age is conquering me.
This is not the end, but it is perhaps the beginning of the end?
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