Samedi, July 14th
And that's it then, I'm leaving at least. On the road again.
And the well laid plan went amiss, as the way I thought was the road out of Figeac was actually the way in. Thought Raju had got things wrong at first, and I'd already walked a kilometer before turning back. Then the guidebook started making sense.
still, I'm on the right path now. Stopped at the enormous cross, the one with the names of the deportees.
Pretty town, the church bells ringing for 10.
Here, at the Gite, at least, I think it's the Gite. There's a load of bunk beds in what looks like a cow shed.
There's no other walkers here, and it's almost in the middle of nowhere, and there's no-one else around. Tried knocking on the door of the house at the front, to pay the 6.20 to, but there's nobody home. In fact, the door doesn't look like it's actually been used for quite some time.
Still, it looks clean enough, and I'm making my second coffee. Looks like nothing to do but drink coffee and read. Should've bought a bottle or red wine at Faycelles. I will at Cajarc, tomorrow. Then find a nice place and drink myself stupid.
Someone just drove up. A van full of older people. I hope they go away. I am alone, and right now I feel good about that.
There's about ten of them, trooping through, checking stuff out. One woman speaks English. Please go, I'm thinking, please decide it's too basic. But no, they're counting something, the number of beds I think.
Now they're bringing in stuff, and claiming beds.
I just want to be alone, to drink endless coffees and keep my cooking disasters private, although the noodle and tabouille combination at Livinhac wasn't too bad, actually.
Just sat outside, reading mostly. Slept a little, disconnected dreams. Bits and pieces; finding people, losing them, aware of strange clicking noise that turned out to be the gas tanks outside the Gite.
And, for an aperitif,
I'm given 'alcool de fruits', a white liquid that's very strong, a Gaulois
to smoke, and then a glass of red wine.
Maybe it's somehow all connected. On the phone earlier, C asked me to drink some red wine and think of her. At the time, I hadn't any wine nor any chance of getting any, but now, in front of me, is a glass of red wine.
This is actually turning out quite well.
And after a lengthy discussion about the Camino, they've all trundled of to Rocamadour. You have to begin walking early in Spain, apparently the French typically leave around five in the morning, and apparently the refugios close at 8 in the morning, everybody out, and stay closed until 3, so when you arrive, you just wait for it to open. One of them, Noelle, has already walked it, and shows me her Pilgrims Passport, festooned with stamps. Nice people, for Holy Rollers, but whatever, they even prepared an evening meal for me, cold cuts with salad. Left in the fridge.
Another coffee, more reading.
Went down the road to the pub, where there playing boules out the front, and eye me suspiciously. As it turned out, I had to go, as that's where you pay for the Gite. Odd, if I hadn't have gone, would they have come to me, like a lynch mob. And after I'd been served, the old guy left the bar at quite a clip, and headed towards the Gite, and I developed this absurd fear that he'd be going through our stuff. Drank most of the beer in a gulp, and got back to here. But no, he's not been here, but three cyclists have arrived.
Nearly finished reading Ravelstein. It's been good, I'll be a little saddened to have to leave it behind somewhere. Oh well.
And so ends another day.