Via Podiensis: a Rough Day

02 September 2023 Thom Pilgrim Reports, Via Podiensis

After the high that was Rocamadour, today was bound to be a bit of a letdown. Thanks to some self-inflicted problems, it was a great deal worse than it should have been. Isn’t that always the way?

Last night after walking the Way of the Cross, I returned to the sanctuary of the Black Virgin to find Vespers already underway. I joined in, with many other pilgrims there. Afterwards, we prayed the Angelus, and then the priest gave us all a blessing, as well as a holy card with the Memorarae in French and a medal depicting Our Lady of Rocamadour.

And then a number of us had a sort of farewell dinner, as for many of the pilgrims I have met, Rocamadour is their final pilgrimage destination.

There were thunderstorms last night, making the stone steps of the city a ly treacherous this morning. After partaking in an enormous breakfast spread prepared by the sisters, I left at first light, but I went very, very slowly down those steps.

After the great crush of tourists yesterday, it was eerie to see the streets of the town completely empty of people, especially in the blue-gray morning light.

I had a map of the town, which made finding the GR 46, my new road of choice, much easier than it otherwise might’ve been. I was out of town by 7 AM, once again in an effort to beat the heat. Although the terrible heat wave of the past was over, the next few days were supposed to be quite warm – probably in the high 80s.

I passed an old tower and crossed a bridge over the dry riverbed, and so passed out of Rocamadour.

The Way more or less immediately entered the forest and began to climb on a path of loose stone and gravel. The air was already warm, and oh so humid, making this a tough slog first thing. Even my glasses fogged up in protest as I crawled up the cliff face opposite Rocamadour.

It was only when I got to the top, sweaty and out of breath, that I realized I had forgotten to top off my water bottles. This is a rookie mistake. A clear violation of rule seven of my “practical rules for the Camino”.

I actually thought about turning back at this point, but the idea of going down and then back up that slope again was a little more than I could bear. All of the guidebooks indicated there was a little to no support for the next 16 km, so I placed my trust in the Lord that He would see me clear to find a way.

To be clear, it’s not as though I had no water. One bottle was half full, and the other had a little bit in it as well. But this was clearly not optimal for a long stage with a little support.

The Way, now a relatively level dirt and stone road, continued through the forest, the ruined remains of stone walls lining the path on the right-hand side. The terrain was mostly forest and scrubland, and thanks for last night’s rain there were occasional puddles to navigate, but nothing serious.

The Camino took a sharp left onto an asphalt road, and I suddenly had the weird feeling that I was walking in circles around Rocamadour. After just a little while, though, I again veered right off the road and onto a gravel track towards a mist-filled valley.

Really, the only tricky bit was perhaps a 10 m almost vertical downhill scramble on loose stone to another road. This, I did not enjoy, and it took me quite some minutes to get down.

Fortunately, the way soon returned to a gentle forest path. This was an easy and beautiful path, and I was soon lost in contemplation.

I came to a fork in the road and could not find any trail marker indicating which direction to go. Then it slowly began to dawn on me that I hadn’t actually seen a trail marker since I left the road, probably 2 km or more back.

This day was not going quite as planned.

So I did the only thing I could do; I turned around and walked back to try to find a trail marker. It was not in serene contemplation that I now walked, but barely restrained panic.

I was practically back at the road when I found the marker down a side trail that I hadn’t noticed. I basically added 5+ km to my day, losing an hour and any advantage that I might have had by leaving early.

There’s a lesson in there somewhere. Perhaps it is: don’t get so lost in your contemplation that you don’t see the signs, and never be afraid to go back to where you made a wrong turn. Even if that is a long way, indeed.

The correct trail was wide dirt and grass, with an occasional carpeting of fallen leaves or pine needles. After some kilometers of this, it was back to roadwalking. I hoped to find a source of water in the village of Couzou, as I was by this time nearly out.

As it happened, there was an old-fashioned pump well across from the little village church. I filled my water bottles, and went into the church to pray an act of thanksgiving.

Thus reinvigorated, I set off down the road. It was 9:30 in the morning, I had walked 10.2 kilometers to reach this village, which was only 5.4 km from Rocamadour. I had just over 20 km to go. It was only now that the humidity had lessened enough that my glasses stopped fogging up. The air still felt stifling, though.

The rest of the morning was a mix of asphalt and gravel roads, mostly through pasture and farmland, with plenty of tree cover. This was important, as the clouds were beginning to break up and the sun to shine through.

Some of the meadows here contain vast flocks of sheep. Don’t worry, though – there were still plenty of cows about.

About 10:30 AM, a strong east wind began blowing. It was delightfully refreshing after the muggy morning so far.

About half an hour later, the Camino turned down a sheltered dirt road through the forest, and once again I was walking through souplike humidity. The route got rougher and rockier as it went, but it hewed a virtually straight path through the woods.

I was dripping with sweat and grateful for the merest breeze.

At about 11:20 AM, I came to a small clearing with views opening out onto pasture land. There is even a funny sort of kiosk there, and a picnic table and benches. I decided this was probably the best place to eat my lunch. I dug into my supplies, and wolfed down a sandwich.

I had so far come some 18 km.

I probably spent far too much time on that little bench. As I was packing up to go, Bruno caught up with me and sat down for a little rest. I moved on, confident he would catch up with me again. Soon, I was roadwalking, before coming to a little gate and entering a path through the woods again. Just 12 km to go.

After a kilometer and a half or so, the Camino was back to its usual cycle of surfaces, at one point even passing under a busy highway. It was warm and muggy, and the infrequent breezes were delightful relief. Part of my brain was taking bets from another part of my brain as to whether Bruno would catch up to me before I reached our final destination or not.

Although Bruno is the only pilgrim I’d seen all day, on a couple of occasions I did notice fresh tracks in the mud, so clearly there was at least one pilgrim on the road ahead of me. Probably more.

Just after 1 PM, there was a short, treacherous rocky decline. This is where Bruno passed me. Part of my brain owes another part of my brain a nickel.

About 1:30 PM, I passed through the outskirts of the village of Montfaucon. I seriously considered calling it a day here, but I realized that tomorrow me would not be very happy with that decision. Just 5.5 km to go. On the long straightaways, Bruno was just barely in sight. Eventually, I lost sight of him altogether.

Somehow I caught up to him on a long steep hill, huffing and puffing like an old-time steam locomotive. We walked together a while after that, but eventually he pulled ahead again and was soon out of sight.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, I came upon a large pond with manicured lawn surrounding it and benches and picnic tables. I thought that surely this must be a mirage of some kind. A figment of a deluded mind desperate for the next village.

I didn’t care. I sat on one of the benches. It was real. My feet throbbed. It was almost 2:30 PM, and I had so far logged 29.9 km.

After drinking a little water, and giving my feet a moment to calm down, I continued for the last kilometer.

The last little bit to the village was uphill, and I’m pretty sure an arthritic three legged dachshund could’ve beat me. I arrived in the village church at 10 minutes before 3 o’clock and collapsed into a pew.

Bruno found us a gîte, and a little over an hour later I was showered, my clothes were vaguely clean, but my feet were still bruised.

Today’s final distance: 30.8 km. Pretty lousy on what should have been a 25 km day.