We had slept well in our room on the fourth floor of the abbey and we ate well for breakfast, with some pilgrims setting off as we ate, but with most having finished their walk here in Conques (Conk). Some Norwegians beside us told of how their last day had been a disappointment, with the snow covering the trail markers and making progress slow and difficult in shoes, and how finally they had given up and taken a taxi. They were full of advice to take the first day very slowly, because the impact of the pack makes a great difference to how difficult the walking is. It was unfortunate that our first day would be at least 20 kilometres, with the option to do another five to a cheaper gite (hostel for pilgrims).
Everywhere around us was so beautiful on this misty autumn morning – the village, the river, the folds of hills rising steeply on all sides, the carpets of leaves, acorns and chestnut cases.
A little diversion took us to the Chapel of St Roche, who was a saint who is often substituted for St James along the Chemin de Saint Jacques, and who is always depicted as a pilgrim.
We still felt very much like tourists. We could have spent a day taking photos, but we didn’t know how we would go and if we would have any time to spare. We crossed the Roman bridge over the River Dourdou and started the steep ascent of the hill.
We were climbing very steeply and needed our batons to help us on the slippery, wet stones. We soon stripped off our coats and in no time I was in my t-shirt. It was hot work and I dreaded 
We stopped at the Chapel of St Foy, where people had left their prayers and thoughts in an exercise book. I wondered where the old books were kept, holding as they must, centuries of thought and hopes. Mist, like rivers, ran between the ridges of the mountains, and wreathed the roof of the chapel.
We had checked the day’s route in our guide book, carefully checking that I understood all the French vocabulary. The red and white markers were so clear and so appropriately placed that we were able to follow them, and not stress about my translations, but the book was very good for providing additional information about places of note.
It wasn’t all that long before we had climbed out of the valley and we were walking between fields of cattle. Brown bracken sometimes swamped the hilltop heath lands, and the wilderness alternated with farm land.
A herd of cows congregated around well built weather proof mangers, and Keith noted that the word ‘manger’, in French meaning to eat, would have been why we, without knowing why, use the word ‘manger’.
Walking along the ridge, we had magnificent views in every direction, sometimes looking down onto a farm house nestled in a remote fold of land and wondering about the lives of the people who lived there and tended their grapes, or their cattle.
We had the anti-dog spray for emergencies, but it was not appropriate to use on the friendly dog, pleased to see some passers by, who tried to love us to death.
By that stage we had started to descend, and to pass through tiny villages where farm houses and buildings had the road passing between them and we felt as if we were walking in the farmer’s yard.
It was at about 11.30 when we caught up with the family we had seen setting off from Conques just before us. They were on the last day of their walk, and were taking it slowly to enjoy every minute. They said that the first day really hurts under the feet and on the shoulders, and they strongly advised against going further than the twenty kilometres. We walked together for a while, passing some curious horses that had come up to stare at the people, and parted when they stopped for lunch. We were anxious to walk the majority of the distance before stopping, and felt that we were going OK. We had glorious conditions for walking and, although we could feel our bodies, we were loving it.
After our lunch break, and many more kilometres of scenic wonders, we began to feel that we might take the advice about stopping at Decazeville. Keith had on new shoes, and was feeling as if he was developing a bruise where they rubbed near his ankles, and felt sore under his foot too. His shoulders hurt, and his legs began to ache. My left shoulder was putting in some complaints, and I was just feeling tired. Using the baton in my left hand helped my shoulder, but generally, I think that a fifteen kilometre first day would have been perfect.
We added a little extra to our walk by choosing a different route down into Decazeville, via St Michel. Once we were in populated areas, people were giving us friendly greetings and wishing us a good walk. We were a little nonplussed when we followed the signs to the city, and discovered deserted buildings with broken windows and even the church boarded up and with a tree growing out of its front wall. Where had we gone wrong? A lady told us how to reach the centre of the city, and explained that we had come in at the old industrial end; the end where the coal miners had lived for so many years before the mine closed in the early 2000s. Neglected and abandoned, the scarred earth in some of the open cut sections and the mine head over the main shaft would no doubt one day be reclaimed as part of the town’s heritage.
We walked along a street full of patisseries, shoe shops and hairdressing salons, past a very grand Mairie (Town Hall) and a fine statue of the Duc de Cazes, an industrialist no less, and it was clear that this end of town was well cared for and that the residents and others in the district must have some disposable income. The florist shops were bursting with street displays of gorgeous chrysanthemums in pots, and they were being snapped up by all the people planning to visit the cemeteries for All Hallows. A few shops had adopted Halloween, with pumpkin lanterns and witches. One family, with three children in black outfits and with scars drawn on their cheeks, called at different shops, hoping to be given treats to go in their basket. They were well behaved and polite, and were thrilled when a florist gave them a red rose bud.
There was no gite open in Decazeville. A gite is the cheaper sort of accommodation with dormitory beds and sometimes cooking facilities. It costs about 10-16 Euros (A$20 - 32) each to stay there and sometimes breakfast is included. We had to book in at the only hotel, which was more expensive. Our other option was to walk on another five kilometres over the hills to a gite, and neither of us had any more effort left, plus we didn’t want to create injuries by overdoing it. A jolly man welcomed us.
An hour at the internet café for both of us was $A20 – we should have asked the price first – but we had some important emails to send and it was a pleasure, as always, to receive news from our friends and family. As we hobbled down the main street we ran into the family that we had walked with earlier in the day, not hard in a town with one long main street, and they told us that they were staying at the same hotel as us. That that was a bit of a given too. They also told us that the next day of walking would be harder, but to hang in there to get the benefits of our bodies gradually adjusting.
After a picnic tea, we typed and read for a while, but we had trouble keeping awake and my body kept recommending that I lie down flat. We spoke to our friend, Michel, who we had driven us from
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