St Gilles to Vauvert 17.8km
It was quite hot and stifling in our underground room over night, so I didn’t get much sleep. Jacques and I had agreed to leave just before 7am, so I got up at 5:45am to write first. I got a page written around breakfast and packing. Viola was really tired, so had breakfast with us then went back to bed. For some reason it was a bit of a struggle fitting everything back in, but maybe it was because I was packing with an audience and a feeling like I didn’t want to hold Jacques up from starting walking. I made a cheese and avocado baguette for the road with an apricot and peach for snacks. It felt much better to have food to eat for the day.
Jacques and I set out just as the church bells struck 7 and we joked about wanting to leave just before 7am. It was a warm morning, but a beautiful one nevertheless. A taste of what was to come and of course entree into another song – Oh, What a Beautiful Morning. Once we had left the town, we crossed a disused railway line and then wove our way through orchards of apricots and peaches. Olive groves and vineyards appeared along the small farming roads complete with the odd tractor. The sun was not yet high enough to worry us and without really realising it, we’d walked for nearly an hour and a half. Jacques was very kindly (and patiently) assisting me to speak with him in French, and because it was the morning, my brain was fresh, and it wasn’t too hard and it made the time pass quicker.
St Gilles dogs – a beagle for Anita
We paused on the wall outside Chateau Lamargue, a big winery, and my friends from yesterday passed again. They were nearing the end of their walk and so were planning to walk a long way today. He was still keen on the walking, but she was saying that she might not do it again.
Resuming, we soon met the Canal d’Irrigation du Bas-Rhone Languedoc which we walked next to for several kilometres on an at times difficult dirt road. The stones were smooth like river stones, and came in all sizes making it important to choose your steps carefully so as to avoid a twisted ankle. Just before leaving the canal, we decided to have a break in the nearest thing to the Belle-vue on the signpost that we could manage. In reality there was no good place to stop, it was very dry and dusty, so we made do under pencil pines with the associated insect species – you know the ones I’m talking about!
Canal d’Irrigation du Bas-Rhone Languedoc
After this point we were to cross the bridge and double back for a short distance (probably to avoid the more direct route on private property). We then found ourselves walking next to a field of courgettes. Did I say I was in France? Zucchini doesn’t have the same ring does it? Turning again, the sun ripening the apricots, several varieties of peach and nectarine (including my favourite nectarine variety), was now fully on our backs. Most of varieties were perhaps a week away from my kind of ripe, but there was a fallen branch and I found a peach to my liking to feast upon. The track passed into a more shaded area and we passed some pigs – we could smell them and hear them rather than seeing them as they were behind a hedge. It took me back to days at the Royal Adelaide Show.
We ate lunch under a large tree in the shade near an old stone building. Bees buzzed overhead in the branches instead of cigales. For the afternoon, we passed bigger, more open farm land and then crossed a road and descended into an unusual cutting made into the clay. It made a trench of varying heights lined with varying sized stones again. Once again the way was found by picking your steps carefully. The smell of pine was heady and there were pine needles along the way also. In the stretches that were not shaded, the sun burnt my skin more each step. We emerged from that little diversion onto a plateau of vines, and we could smell sulphur. In the morning I had explained to Jacques how I had worked for pocket money in Renmark in the summertime as a teenager at first cutting apricots and then picking grapes. I explained how we’d cut the apricots in half and set them out on wooden trays that would stack up to 6 high before being piled maybe 50 high and sulphured overnight. The trays would then be spread during the day for drying. Those were the days, when Australia produced it’s own dried apricots and Turkish apricots saw out their lives in Turkey. Those were lovely summers with Aunty Carolyn and Uncle Don, and my cousins. They are very precious memories, and the reason I know the smell of sulphur a mile off.
Looking back for pigs
When I’m writing about this walking, it might sound like I skip along the road effortlessly. Jacques could attest that is not what I look like when I have walked 17 kilometres. Walking into Vauvert could be better described on my part at least, as shuffling – Cliff Young style. He at least was jogging, and he had an excuse for shuffling, he was 76. The other reason for me shuffling was that the copious amounts of stone fruit were taking their toll on my innards, and I’d been needing a toilet for a number of hours. I’m sensitive about number twos in the wild (there’s one for you Jo)! I might need to get over that before 6 weeks is done.
Humbling things happen though when you reach a town. One man had a water bottle, and offered to top mine up. Another woman who Jacques had asked about directions to Coleurs du Sud (our Chambre d’hotes) took our bottles inside to get ‘fresh’ water as Jacques put it – fresh for it’s temperature rather than the opposite of water from a stagnant pond. Her husband came out with a laptop to help with the orientation.
I like this asking thing. I don’t do enough of it. Maybe when I’m full of concerns or think that it is a reflection on my capabilities I find it hard to allow myself to ask. Maybe I just haven’t been very interested in connecting with people. Maybe this is a symptom of burnout. In the past I’ve preferred to work things out for myself and maybe there is conceit involved in this because very often I believe I will have the answer and may doubt if others could provide further value. Or is it just that I trust my own judgement. Coming to a town, I’d be more likely to just follow my nose until I found what I was looking for, rather than ask. Certainly I think that the language issue has been bigger on previous visits. Now I’m much more likely to ask when something opens or closes, or where to find water for instance. Sometimes I think it is more about the pride I feel when I know I have worked it out for myself. It will be interesting to observe what happens over this trip – whether I use my opportunities to ask.
I had the fortunate experience of travelling around Australia some years ago with an opera company, Co-Opera from South Australia. I helped out with the driving for thousands of kilometres in addition to playing 40 regional versions of Puccini’s La Boheme. One of the things that made the trip a little more interesting for me, was keeping a look out every day for some form of Australia Post van or truck. Most days I wasn’t disappointed, and at random moments the red messengers would cross our path. I expect on this trip, the jaune (yellow) La Poste vans will serve the same purpose. They, because the French have more taste, and maybe more loyalty to their state institutions, do not yet have … “powering online shopping” written on them! I’m not always quick enough to snap them, unless they’re stationary (excuse the pun), but once again, I expect to see them most days.
La Poste – Vauvert
We arrived around 1.00pm at our accommodation and our hostess, Marie-Claude had us decant from our backpacks the bare essentials we would need for sleeping. Our backpacks were then stored in garbage bags next to our boots in the entry hall. Apparently this is a precaution many hosts take in order not to get outbreaks of bed-bugs. I haven’t heard of any bed bugs so far, so it seems like a bit of a rigmarole for nothing, but being a hostess myself, I understand the caution.
It was a nice room overlooking the street with two camp beds and a double. I was happy with the camp bed. Marie-Claude was keen to let me know that the bed is for sleeping in. I wasn’t to sit on it, read in it or in anyway be in it apart from reclined. There had obviously been previous guests who had come a cropper. The bathroom was down a small passage – sans door … racy! I’d just have to trust that Jacques wouldn’t walk in on me.
Traditional costume of the Camargue
Downstairs, they have converted their garage into a beautiful outdoor enclosed kitchen and dining area next to an enclosed patio with high brick walls and it was here that we were treated to anise syrup cordial. We’d later have our beautifully prepared supper there and petit dejeuner the next morning. Jacques and Marie-Claude discussed her work as a maternity nurse. I listened, but didn’t understand much. When the conversation moved to pets I pricked up my ears when Royal Canin was mentioned. You may remember I took a trip to Shanghai with a guy I was knocking around with a few years ago when I lived in Sydney. He was going for a job with this company, so I knew what it was about. When he told me that the job might involve several trips to France each year I said, that would be great. He’d never been to France, so I said don’t take my word for it being fantastic, he might hate France. M-C was enthusiastically telling us about how it is pet food specialised for the age and dietary needs of the dog. This fact sits amongst all the trivia I know that is usually of limited use to me. It might have got me extra credibility with Jacques and M-C on this occasion. What I didn’t know was their factory and the associated kennels were right around the corner from here. Who knew?
After we’d showered and washed our clothes, we were sitting around, letting our muscles repair and M-C offered to show us the pride of the Camargue … bull-fighting. Clip after clip on YouTube showing the bulls pursuing lithe young men who often ended up needing to escape by jumping Ninja-style over two fences. The bull in pursuit at times jumps one fence, ploughing into it with its legs. My sensitivities to these kinds of ‘sports’ which the animal apparently ‘loves’, not my words, have grown over the years. Apart from the fact I could barely stand still from the walk as my feet and legs were aching, I could also barely stand to watch it. I did out of politeness to my host, and for a few beautiful Carmague scenery films, but this was not the highlight of my Via Tolosana adventure.
It was a mutual pushing of buttons I think, because not long after I had felt obliged to stand up for 15 minutes in the same spot, I needed to sit down, and unfortunately literally put my feet up. The outdoor dining area contained outdoor chairs and M-C not being there to ask, I put my feet on one of the cushions. M-C returned to find my feet on the seat and I was in no uncertain terms told that this was not done in France and I was ushered to the chaise lounge outside. Oops. Even pilgrim’s feet don’t deserve a seat when they’re tired, not even for medical reasons.