Bach to Cahors, France, Sunday November 9th

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We walked off past the currently unoccupied stone pig pen that was bythe gate at the road, a placement that can’t have done much for encouraging visitors when it was in use in the past. Michele and CC waved us off, and we promised to send a post card when we made it to Compostelle in Spain, even if it was in twenty years time.

The walking was easy, over lanes strewn with leaves and through the woods.We were amazed to meet a pair of walkers coming our way. They explained that they were in training for the pilgrimage and, being a fine weekend day, were walking on the local trails in the Lot Region. There are many well marked trails in the Lot Valley, all of which look as if they would be fascinating to do. Another couple of very serious young walkers simply smiled and greeted us as they passed. It felt as if the chemin was very crowded indeed! A leaf, hanging on a spider web suspended from, it seemed, the sky above, turned slowly at eye height. We felt no breeze, but there was enough draft for the curled leaf to endlessly spiral. Such a small thing could give so much interest and pleasure.

We had a long way to go, with 27 kilometres to Cahors, and after about four kilometres, yesterday’s 24 kilometres, and the last raced part, started to tell. It was quite difficult to get everything moving smoothly after only a break of about ten minutes. We had not experienced that before. Nevertheless we ploughed on, just moving slowly until our muscles were fully warmed up again.
After hours, seemingly ages of walking, we saw a sign that said that we only had 18 kilometres to go, so that was cheering. What it didn’t say was that there were some very steep hills, some very long hills, some dangerous descents, some boring and dangerous road walking and some very loose and uneven stony surfaces. It was pretty tough going.

The Sunday activity of many men seemed to be hunting. Our walk took us past several organised groups. The identifying features of hunters seemed to be large moustaches, bright orange caps, large vehicles, nearly hairless dogs, and of course, guns. Much of the countryside that we passed through was designated as hunting reserves, and although we saw no wildlife at all, save the fresh head of a rabbit in the middle of the path, the dogs and men were working together to flush it out so that it could be shot. They were all very amiable as we passed, although our noisy sticks and plodding must have been annoying to them. One man told us that they were hoping for wild pigs.

As we climbed a particularly difficult hill, we passed a hunting club house which was beginning to fill up for lunch. We ourselves stopped to eat at about two o’clock at a sports reserve, and waved to the hunters as they drove past in their cars. I hung my washing up to dry in a tree, coyly placing my knickers on a rock so as to embarrass no-one. I pegged my socks to the back of my pack to dry as we walked, but then had to walk back quite a way when one fell off. It was not the day for it, but the thought of walking to a sock shop to replace it had driven me on.

Worst of all, we were both in agony and could hardly hobble around. I mean, we were not just a bit stiff; we seemed to have ‘seized up’. We sat on some rocks and prolonged our break a little, but the reality was that we had to walk another eight kilometres to Cahors, and that distance would only go away if we walked it. Also, time was ticking on and the descent into Cahors would be a steep one, judging by the contour lines on the map. Slowly we picked our way along the first kilometre, until we were back in walking order, and then we picked up our rhythm again.

It was a relief not to be walking into the sun, but the stony plateau seemed endless. At last we started to descend and then Cohors was laid out before us, snuggled into a loop in the Lot River. We rang a gite, secured a room, and continued on the way down. We have found that steep downhill walking can be very stressful on the knees and muscles, not to mention the feeling of your toes hitting the ends of your shoes as they push forward. Even when the track gave way to a paved road, the angle was not at all kind to our legs.

We crossed the Lot on the main road bridge, then followed the path of the main road, which itself followed the fortification ditch of the old medieval town. We were looking for the Bank Credit Agricole, since our gite was behind it. When we saw it, we crossed the road to take the road beside it, but an elderly gentleman intercepted us. He asked where we were going and when I explained, he told us that our gite was not behind that branch, and that he lived opposite it and would take us there. The way we were by then, truly on our last legs, made his appearance seem like that of an angel, although we were disappointed to have to walk yet another 300 metres. He talked about the sights to see, nominating the cathedral and the Valentre Bridge, and told us that our gite and other buildings had some vestiges of Roman times still to be seen in their cellars. We could hear music, but the suggestion that we might like to join the dancing in the ex-chapel of our ex-nunnery gite, was laughable. He asked us if we had food, which we did, and delivered us to the manager of the gite, explaining that we were lost Australians that he had found. Such kindness was really touching and I am sure that if we had not had anything to eat, given that the shops were shut, he would have helped us even more.

We registered, unloaded everything and set off to the all-night grocery store to buy a few necessary items, and on the way discovered the Internet cafes. The all-night grocery store was very interesting, because it seemed to have very few items, in a very limited range for sale, and almost nothing that we wanted. We settled for a bottle of milk and some bread.

The gite was enormous, with several floors run by different groups. Walking up the spiral staircase while we were warm was reasonable, but after we had finished our one minute soup, bread and chocolate milk downstairs, it was quite a trial to make it back to our room. The long pink corridor had showers at one end and toilets at the other. The floor would have betrayed any nun who was out of her cell at the wrong time, and made even tip toeing sound loud. We had a double room, with a divider that didn’t quite cross the room. We could chat, but not see each other from the beds.

During this day, which had been long and arduous, it had suddenly struck me that the very best thing about this year was how we were spending so much time together, in fact virtually all our time. We each found the other to be a wonderful travelling companion, and enjoyed being together all the time. It may not seem to be a great revelation for two people who love each other and have been married for nearly 36 years, but it was a moment of great joy for us.

I drifted off to sleep wondering why the General had turned Catherine out of Northanger Abbey, and trying to ignore the toileting, showering and corridor walking of our fellow residents. Keith, eager to post some blog pages in this town, read my rambles on Africa and selected photos until he, too, ran out of steam.