A rebel without a clue.

Pilgrimage Pt.16. 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 road...

Pilgrimage Pt.15. 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 leav...

Pilgrimage Pt.14. Late last night I changed my mind. If I can't just about walk straight on again today weather permitting I'll see how the bones and the damp feels Friday before deciding to walk to Conques or use a hackney. I've still got all of the emergency sterling fund that mother gave me without me asking; haven't had chance to exchange it. The Way of St James recommends Hospitalité Saint-Jacques: and I'm going to relax in Estaing, 320m: without a bleeding nose coming down from 1400m and snaking over many more petit Marilyns. So far all I've had for petit dejourner are a dozen Agen Prunes. I was helped on my way to my donativo so popped back for le cafe au femme et créme! Everyone else seems to be going forward to Golinhac, but they didn't go over the hill between Espalion and Estaing. I can't manage another afternoon of being wetness. My feet are getting trenchfoot from everyday's rains. It is another seventeen kilometres, up hill a bit, in...

Pilgrimage Pt.13. 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 s...

Pilgrimage Pt.12. 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 ...

Pilgrimage Pt.11. 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. Fr...

( https://www.evernote.com/shard/s315/sh/1bc417a5-1063-4e75-abf1-d666dd8e4bdb/4cc30b703f7a6b84898a78b9c7fe1550) 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...