Back on the GR 65.

I decided not to be with the other pilgrims for dinner last night. After a some slices of Coeur du Boeuf, half of the saussion sec, some dried figs, bread and most of the bottle of Gaillac I decided the conversation between the volunteers (hosts) and another gentleman were judging far too many persons on the chemin so I went up to bed. Although there are always those who don't get it, and will use Donativo for their family too, any person who had just walked 25 kilometres in 32° deserves a Donativo evening anywhere. There are far too many capitalists who are hungry to use the pilgrim to have a simple, stationary life. The town of Estella in Spain only exists as it was built to service passing pilgrims - it is a fact and it is even a proud heritage found in the history books.

This morning I woke too early. The German man was snoring hard and the sound of drunken Roister Doisters was traveling up to the room from somewhere along the Cele. The occasional mindless drunken annoying shouting was preventing any heavy zeds. Just like mindless adolescents everywhere Saturday night often becomes a wet fingered Sunday as they dig each other.

Time to leave the gîte was around 7:30 am. The prim and proper hosts needed the next eight hours to finger their arseholes with all their ability.

It has got very very warm again. Coming down from Montredon was a long two hours. But by 3 I was at the gîte. Time to wait until it reopens at 4:30 pm. The hosts have left numerous instructions to help one to unwind. They have Leffe Blonde 25cls in the red Smeg - delighted - and I sure my absent hosts won't mind Jorge Ben belting out?

***

Here is a bed. It is time to relax as the Gallic tones drift up, mingling in time with the swallows, from the space the hosts left for guests who arrived prior to the end of Siesta.