Felzins to Figeac, France, Tuesday November 4th

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We were fairly late starting off, since I slept in. I felt fine, no fever or pains, just blotches with more with blisters. Maybe they would start to diminish today. We walked very slowly because we were anxious to give Keith’s muscles and tendons time to warm up, and not to aggravate whatever problems were there already. We had gone off the track to reach our gite, and thought that the short cut to catch up with the GR65 would be the way to go. It would have been if we had been paying attention to the signs that were coming in from the other direction, and taken up the GR65 at the right point.

Instead, we looked at the road signs, and took the one to Figeac, our ultimate destination, and very soon we saw the red and white signs of the GR65 and we headed off to the right. Now, you might think that heading off in the wrong direction might ring some bells, but as with many parts of the route, it is possible to go in any direction at first and to meet another track fairly soon. We were glad to be feeling fine and to see the markers materializing before us. There was one point that I retraced because it seemed like a long time since we had seen the red and white, but we seemed to be on track so we kept going. Passing a distinctive maize field with the shorn stalks, I commented that that kind of treatment must be all the rage in France as we had seen one just like it yesterday, and Keith added that perhaps the roots kept the soil together in the rain. Finally we passed a cottage that I was sure that I had seen the day before, and we realised that we had walked backwards on the part of the track that we had not walked on the day before, and then on a little bit that we had walked and should have recognized. Luckily it was only about a four or five kilometre diversion and soon we were back on track.

The terrain was hilly, passing through little villages and up tiny paths between fences. At St Jean Mirabel the route took us the long way, to ensure that we saw the statue of St Jean (Joan of Arc), who is much revered in France. She stands a bit forlornly, away from the church and any life, her armour making her easily recognizable.Doubling back through the village, we eventually walked uphill for a long stretch along a busy road. That was not so pleasant, and especially since we had lost the red and white markers again. We didn’t have any lunch with us and passed no shops, but at least we had a piece of fruit and some water, and we didn’t expect to be in Figeac later than the early afternoon.

Having checked the map, we saw that we could continue as we were and would catch up with the route again. I was now thinking that a pharmacist would never take the responsibility to diagnose my blisters and blotches, and although I felt fine, we thought we had better find a doctor.

The path left the road and headed down a steep incline where a sign said that we would find a Roman Church. We missed it, and had swooped back up to the road and didn’t feel like going back. This indicates that we had probably had enough walking for the day, and it certainly was true for me. Unfortunately when we saw a lane to Figeac, and red and white ribbons also going straight ahead, we took the way that was an alternative route that bypassed Figeac. Talk about a day of errors! That added at least four kilometres to our total, and we were very lucky to meet a walker who explained it all to us, just before we headed over the hills and into the distance.

We walked down beside a highway, the least desirable of places, with no verge in some spots, until we met up with the red and white markers attached to the continuation of the nice little lane that we had bypassed. It is a strange thing, but all these ups and downs did not leave us feeling miserable, and we saw some places that no doubt other walkers miss out on. The old road into town provided an excellent corn field for going to the toilet in, and as it entered the town, a clinic.A lady asked me what we were looking for as we walked into the car park, and said to go ahead when I explained that I did need a doctor.

Inside we explained the situation to the receptionist, who asked us to wait while she fetched a nurse. It was just as well that we could explain everything in French because it was important to be able to give a history of the last few days as well as of our travels. We could see that Tanzania was a disturbing element, and they decided that a doctor would have to see me.A doctor arrived, asked lots of questions, and then came up with the diagnosis of spider bites. What a relief, until I recalled that if this was Australia, spider bites could be bad news indeed. I was assured that the spiders of France are all of the non-toxic variety, and that I had probably had an allergic reaction. The treatment was to take an antihistamine, to pop and cover the major blisters and to burn my sleeping bag. Of course we only followed the first two bits of advice but Keith did look through the sleeping bags very carefully before we went to bed.

As we walked into Figeac at five o’clock in search of a pharmacy, I no longer looked as if I had the plague but received sympathetic glances from people who saw all my bandages and thought that a dreadful accident had befallen me on my pilgrimage. A kind lady in the pharmacy walked with us to help us find our accommodation. She led us along what seemed to be a maze of narrow streets in the Medieval part of the town. The gite was just delightful, with a kitchen and lounge area and lots of books, magazines and ornaments.

It was not such as maze as we had thought, and we were able to find a boulangerie for some bread and a supermarket for everything else. Keith cooked a delicious dinner while I typed – it feels a bit like a penance that I never finish. For every day of the present that I write, I try to do one or two of the backlog from Africa, and since we are publishing chronologically, and we are walking and not near internet cafes, the present will be the past by the time it is read.

As I typed about the French Presidential votes in Felzins where we were yesterday, I was a little distracted in my political analysis, since Keith has turned on the television. The French dubbed version of ‘The Days of Our Lives’ was rocketing from emotional crisis to bedroom scene and back again. I was intrigued to see one overweight actress, having thought that no-one resembling real people would have passed casting. Maybe things were changing in American fantasy land.

It was an early night for us, with the thought to visit the city in the morning and to walk after lunch.

How can you get lost when the trail is so clearly and consistently marked? The red and white stripes are painted on or attached to trees, road signs , rocks and buildings.

This sign tells you that the trail takes the next turn to the left.

This sign tells you that the GR65 does not follow this road. We managed to walk past quite a few of these during the walk.