I wake up early, about 6:20, and am relieved to see that even though it’s light, the sun has not yet risen. I realised last evening as the sun set that when it rose it would paint the vertical surface of the town. So after checking my blood glucose (I do this first thing every morning) I leave the little Amadour Hotel and walk 200 meters to the Esplanade Restaurant where I had dinner on the terrace last evening. There is no-one here but me – it isn’t open yet – and it is a perfect viewpoint for my planned photos.

The sun has just illuminated the chateau and the top of the rock face as I arrive. I place the camera on the top of a flat wooden fence, use maximum zoom, and over the next 45 minutes I sit and patiently and about every five minutes take another photo as the sunlight creeps down the surface of the town. When I leave there is still no-one around. I am quite surprised that I am the only person who seems to have realised the photographic potential of this sunrise.

It reminds me of an early morning in Ottawa about 20 years ago when I went to Remic Rapids with a stepladder. John Ceprano had created some wonderful forms out of rock in and near the shallow water and I wanted to get some photos of them. One problem that I had noticed earlier was that, when I stood on the ground and took a picture, the horizon line of low trees on the Quebec shore always showed up and marred the image. I had figured out that using a stepladder would likely solve the problem.

So there I was, almost alone. The only other person there was Ceprano, fixing up some forms that thoughtless people had damaged. I set up the ladder and took my photos. After a while, Ceprano came over and we talked for a bit. He said that I was only the second person that he had ever seen use a ladder for the photos. He also said that I was in very good company. The only other photographer was Malik. So I was in very good company indeed! Sometimes comparisons are odious but not this one.

Today is our 54th wedding anniversary. It seems simultaneously a very long time and no time at all. I remember with absolute clarity the 21-year-old I married in 1958. I see her all the time in the elegant woman she has become. Later today I will call her and tell her how I feel about her and about our wonderful and enduring relationship. I won’t call her now because with the six hour time difference it is two in the morning in Ottawa and calling now would put a little strain on our relationship.

It is now just after 8. I am going to have breakfast and get my gear together for the trip to Cahors. Oh yes, the hotel does not have a stamp for pilgrims for the pilgrim passport! So we find a more generic stamp for the hotel which indicates Rocamadour and that’s what we use.

The taxi arrives at 9 and I am on my way … I think. Yesterday the Tourism Office in Rocamadour found the bus schedule, showed it to me and gave me one. It shows a bus going from Gramat, about 10 minutes from here, at 9:35, arriving in Cahors at 10:45. So I expect to spend the day in Cahors. I wonder idly what I will do all day. The taxi drops me at 9:15 at the station in Gramat – it’s for both busses and trains – and I wait … and I wait. Usually the public transport in Europe is deadly accurate.

At about 10 to 10, I ask someone in a local cafe if there is a bus today. They think so but suggest I ask in the station. I didn’t see anyone there before but in I go and find someone who eventually comes to the wicket. I ask about the bus. He looks confused. “But sir, there is no bus today”. Now I look confused. I tell him about the schedule, which I left in the taxi. He insists there is no bus today, and I ask if there is any way to get to Cahors today. Yes, I can get a train to Cahors at noon. It takes a very devious route going north and east, then west, with a stop and a train change and then goes south to get to Cahors just after 4 PM. Well, I have the whole day, I just wasn’t planning on spending a chunk of it on a train. There go those pesky expectations again.

So now I am sitting under a shade tree in the outdoor patio of a cafe just across the parking lot from the station, waiting patiently until noon. I have a grande creme and a glass of water to sip on.I have lovely weather, a sunny day, birds chirping, gentle cool breeze to keep me company. It is very pleasant. The train arrives at noon and I get on for the short trip north, an hour wait and another short trip south.

The first stop on the train is – you guessed it – Rocamadour. So I paid 20 Euros for a taxi, waited three hours for the train and I could have gotten on at Rocamadour and spent the morning in the town. On the other hand, the wait at the cafe was very pleasant, the staff were congenial and helpful and they let me use their WiFi.

And twice in the past 24 hours a cab driver has charged me less than the meter reading and has refused any more. Toto, I don’t think that we’re in Kansas anymore.

At the half-way point, I sit in the terrace of the restaurant at the station and have a beer and a small salad. Two tables away, facing me is a young man, slouching, face set in a frown, cigarette dangling and a chip like a 2×4 on his shoulder. He is not eating or drinking, just slouching there. When the waitress asks him what he would like, he says he wants nothing, then ignores her. She tells him politely that if he isn’t going to have anything, he has to sit elsewhere. He pointedly ignores her, then after a few minutes takes something from a paper bag and eats it. Another 20 minutes passes before he gets up, leaves his garbage and walks off. A lout is still a lout in every culture and n every language.

The train down is fast, quiet almost empty except for a couple of young guys with a two-month-old kitten who does not like the ride.

At Cahors I ask at the station for directions to the gite. It is on a road directly across from the station and about 400 metres away. When I arrive, it’s a big building with no-one at the welcome desk, so I sit and wait for a few minutes. Someone arrives and checks me in. He doesn’t seem very organised which is explained when I discover a few minutes later that everyone is in a meeting and he is part of the cleaning staff. But everything works. He gives me a room key (in a gite? That’s a first) and sheets and a pillowcase – another first.

I organise dinner here for tonight and they call ahead for me for the next two nights, so that is all arranged. I have discovered that I like the assurance of a bed reserved for me when I arrive.

I speak to Carroll on my cell and we exchange anniversary greetings. I am looking forward to seeing her in less than a month in Barcelona.

Dinner is different. I am the only pilgrim having dinner here. There are a few others but they are all eating in town. Good choice. There are a bunch of teenagers in the dining room to whom I am apparently invisible. The age gap, from their side at least must appear to be a chasm and, in addition, they are all chock full of raging hormones that have absolutely nothing to do with a fossil. There are members of the opposite sex nearby.

And the food, for the first time in a gite, is really institutional. Overcooked chicken legs in what purports to be a curry. At least the fresh raw veggies are good and plentiful.

It doesn’t help that I cannot avoid comparing this anniversary to the one five years ago in Boadilla, where the whole atmosphere was warm and welcoming. But I am here by choice, so stiff upper lip and on with tomorrow.

It is very misty when I wake up in the morning, but the sky clears and it looks like it’s going to be a very nice day – which is how it turns out. It is my daughter Meredith’s birthday today and I plot how to send her a birthday greeting.

At breakfast I say farewell to the folks from last evening. They are heading west towards Cahors, I am heading north about 21 kilometres towards Rocamadour. Jésus, true to his word, finishes up his breakfast chores and collects me for the ride to Figeac. It’s only 5 kilometres, but it takes about 15 minutes, the road is so narrow, windy and hilly. I am extremely glad that he has offered this ride. He deposits me in town at an intersection where the signage for GR 6 is obvious. I offer him some money, which he turns down. It is just part of his service to pilgrims.

I hump my pack on, cinch the belt tight, grab my poles and off I go into the unknown … again. It is the first of May, a big holiday in France, so there won’t be much open and there likely won’t be much traffic either. The walk out of Figeac is beautiful, due north, a quiet road which becomes a bridle path. Only a couple of joggers here. Trees line both sides of the road and there is a noisy brook to my left. The sun is shining, the road is flat and it is very peaceful. For the first hour it stays this way, then the path starts to climb. I am on the east side of a narrow river valley and as I climb, I can see behind me farther and farther.

Eventually I am so high (another of those breathtaking climbs) that I can see about 270 degrees of rolling hills and a mix of farms and forest and small villages for miles behind me. Of course I can. The folks who laid out this path have made sure that I have crested the top of every hill in this part of France.

Then I reach the top and start to descend into the next valley. The view to the north opens up. The roads are narrow and the path uses them when convenient and diverges whenever it suits. I can see on the map that the path is extremely windy but so are the roads, so there is no direct path to where I am going. It also tells me that the countryside will be very hilly. At the halfway point I reach Cardaillac, which sounds almost like Cardiac, which is what this path is a superb test of.

Today is like a day outside of time. I get a sense of the grandeur of this magnificent countryside. I walk, I feel good, I feel healthy, and when I climb I make small steps very, very slowly. If someone were to see me, they would think; “That’s an old man walking up a long hill.” And they would be right. When I get to the top of these climbs, however, the recovery time is shorter and shorter, so the body is responding well to the stresses that I am putting on it.

I walk from 9 AM until 3 PM, always alone. Never lonely, just alone. At one point I come across a tiny lake in the woods, almost a pond and there is someone sitting in a blue hooded jacket with a fishing rod. I walk over to talk to the fisher. She turns out to be an extremely old lady sitting in a low chair. She tells me that the recent storms have stirred up the water so much that the fish aren’t biting. On the far side of this lake I meet the only other pilgrim I see all day. He is from Luxembourg, a little younger than me, this is his first day and we end up staying in the same elegant little hotel in Lacapelle-Marival.

I am tired when I arrive. I check in – they are expecting me – find out that they can wash my muddy and sweaty clothes for me, shower and have a sleep.

The view from the room is spectacular. The 15th century gothic church and the 12th century chateau. And I am looking at them from across a lovely little park with a brook down the middle. I would show you a picture here but the import routine is routinely failing so you will have to wait until I get home. Désolé.

There is an interesting psychological phenomenon going on. While I am on the path, I seem to have lots of energy. When I get into the town, it drains away as I get closer to my destination, so when I arrive at the hotel, I am dragging. There is a market in town today – it’s a holiday – but by the time I manage to get outside after my sleep, the market is being torn down. And everything in town is closed because of the holiday. There is not even a place to get a beer.

In the hotel I cannot get phone service but they do have wireless! So I catch up on all my blogs, talk with Carroll and Meredith using Skype and see what’s happening with my Hike for Hospice. It’s over $1700 now, so that’s fine although it is still a long way from my goal of $10,000. But I still have a month to walk. And there have been donations for my hike to local hospices in Toronto, Victoria, Atlanta, Berlin and New Zealand. I love the generosity of people, many of them strangers.

At dinner the service is excellent and elegant. The food is as good but no better than that at any gite but it is served on china and the wine is served in a crystal goblet. I sit with the pilgrim from Luxembourg. This is his first day and he has spent way too much of it in the sun without a hat. His face is red and burned. That has to smart.

He talks about the immigrant problem in Luxembourg. It’s the usual litany of complaints. They won’t work, they steal, they take all the government money. I don’t know what an immigrant is supposed to do. If you work the complaint is that you are taking all the jobs. If you don’t work, you are taking all the tax money. He is anti-immigrant, far right of centre politically. I don’t argue with him because it would be near impossible with my level of French and frankly, I don’t need the stress. I bid him good-night and had off to my room with its ensuite bath and personal light switch by the bed.

The day dawns overcast and it has evidently rained all night. And it still rains. After breakfast, I say goodbye to my three companions of yesterday and I head out, dressed in full regalia, rain pants, jacket and rain-cover on my pack. I decide to walk the road today, not the GR 65, because the road goes directly from here to Figeac while the GR meanders back and forth, perhaps adding 50 percent to the distance. After about 15 minutes, off comes the fleece and after an hour, off come the rain pants and jacket.

Over the next several hours, the rain gear is donned and doffed perhaps four times as the weather changes from sunny to overcast to wet and back to sunny. The road is all country, the sounds of cows lowing, birds singing, the water running and, often, the pitter patter of raindrops on my trusty Tilley hat.

At one point I stop in a sheltered spot, take off my rain gear and before I can get going, have to put it on again. At this shelter a fellow pilgrim has a different guide book, which cautions about the possibility of flooding on the GR, which is another really good reason to take the road. After a month of rain, that possibility is likely very high. The brooks and rivers here are full but not mostly overflowing.

There are quite a few people like me who have chosen the road as a better option here. It is mostly flat, winding, not busy except in a few sections. After almost 5 hours and something like 21 kilometres I am on the outskirts of Figeac. For the last hour I have watched an enormous storm front move from left to right across in front of me on the far side of Figeac. The problem is that it is slowly getting closer as I approach Figeac and it looks and sounds big. It has been my plan to walk into Figeac, then get a ride to Cassagnole, but this storm alters my plans. I hail a car and the young driver takes me into Figeac and deposits me at the train station, where we both believe that I can get a taxi. He leaves me there and drives away.

After four phone calls and no takers, it appears that we are both wrong. The taxi companies are very localized and are not interested in this fare. I go back outside and sit on a bench for about 20 minutes, contemplating what to do next. There is little traffic and no taxis in sight. A decrepit van pulls up and two guys get out. I approach them and ask if they can tell me how to get to the chemin de St. Jacques. I tell them where I am heading because I figure that I will be walking the last five kilometres after all. They have a little discussion and determine that they know where I am going. My mistake has been that I think that Cassagnole is a village and it is actually just a single point. That is why the taxies aren’t interested. They do not know where it is.

But these guys do and the driver is quite prepared to take me there. It’s on his way … and he does not want payment for the ride. Germain turns out to be an organic chicken farmer (ferme bio) and is a very interesting guy. He does not hold out much hope for the future of the human race. he sees more and more pollution and the business money talks … and the politicians listen. Sound familiar?

The road to Cassagnole goes all over the place. It is only about 5 kms out of Figeqc but it might as well be on the moon. The storm clouds have gotten darker and more menacing as we drive and by the time we pull up in front of the gite St. Jacques (what else?) the heavy rain has started. I ask him if he will take payment, not for the ride but for the organic farm. But he won’t and after I unload my pack and poles from the back of his little van, he drives off with a “bon chemin” and a big smile. A gracious man.

I am first here and there is no host in sight. It is a two-storey gite, 5 single beds and a bunk on the first floor, some more singles and bunks in the loft. Since I am first here, I get to choose my location and I select the bed nearest to the toilets and shower, planning ahead for tonight. The night traffic won’t bother me and it will be a short walk to the toilets, which I will undoubtedly need to make some time tonight. I change into my “village” clothes and have my afternoon nap under a blanket. Since I can turn my hearing aids off (thank you, Julia Robillard!) the quiet talking in the gite does not bother me. I figure that I have earned this nap today.

As people slowly drift in, the weather worsens. Over the next hour three separate thunderstorms roll through, each with its load of hail. I am very happy that I am not out in this. Four of the people who come in are the same women who walked the road just ahead or just behind me for a few hours. One of them, a short woman, had me concerned a few times because she walked as part of a group of three down the centre of the road. Since this road is shared by people driving big black Mercedes at speed, I was concerned for her safety. But here she is.

There is lots of chatter, mostly in French with a smattering of German. There are quite a few Swiss on this section of the chemin. I speak at length with a Belgian guy, Corneel, quite young, Flemish from the northern part of Belgium. To my relief, his English is better than my French, and we have an extended conversation in English about the bilingual nature of our two countries and the way the politicians manage to botch it. It sounds as if theirs are worse than ours.

Later he assists me as I try to add time to my cell phone. The problem is to understand the recorded voice giving instructions on the phone – in mechanical French. I think we sort it out.

At dinner I sit with Corneel, Stefan from Munich, Frans from Holland and Johanna, who is Swiss. There is no single common language, so the animated conversation drifts from language to language depending on topic and speaker. If the speaker can’t find a word in a language someone else offers a substitute. We range in age from Johanna who is barely 20, to Frans and me.

Frans, perhaps 60, left his home near Eindhoven on 5 March and is halfway to Santiago. I am amazed at how many people on this route have started from home and intend to walk all the way. He tells me a story about the early part of his journey.

He was in a small town about 5:30 in the evening and had not found any place to stay. He was sitting on a park bench when an older woman walked up and asked him if he needed a bed for the night. He said that he did. She told him to wait there, she had a hair appointment and she would be back in half an hour, which she was. She collected him in her car and off they went. He asked if there would be a problem with her husband. She assured him that there would not. When they arrived at her place, they went in and met her elderly husband. It turns out that she had walked the chemin years before and had recognised his scallop shell as the mark of a pilgrim. She looked for other pilgrims that she could help – and this was one of the ways she could do it.

Jésus, the genial host here, in his 60s, white beard and a pony tail just like Hollis Morgan’s, arranges accommodation for me in Rocamadour. He also volunteers to drive me back to Figeac in the morning because he figures that I won’t make it from here. It is just too far and too difficult. I accept his offer with alacrity and go to bed to the sound of quiet sleeping noises in the dortoir.

This morning I wake up in my bunk to the sound of breakfast in the adjoining room. It is 7:30, the room is full of people getting ready for their day. I get Jean, our young and very helpful host, to call ahead for me so that now I have confirmed quarters for the next three nights. Today I have a bed in a rural gite in Chaunac, tomorrow in another just outside Figeac and the next day in a chambre d’hote about 20 kms in the direction of Rocamadour.

This is a diversion from the GR 65 towards St. Jean Pied de Port which I am making because I specifically want to see Rocamadour. It is a very popular tourist attraction and from what I have seen of photos, it is no surprise why. It appears to be built into the cliffs overlooking the river.

Just after I start off today, on the apparently inevitable long climb out of Descazeville, I meet three of the people from last evening who tell me that they are staying in Chaunac today as well. We walk together for a bit, but I have to walk at a pace that I can maintain, so much of the time I walk alone, but always in sight of them, ahead or behind. The chemin is hilly, sometimes dry, sometimes very wet in the woods, so I have to take great care when walking the wet, slippery descents. The views when we are on top of the hills, are breathtaking – or perhaps that’s just me trying to catch my breath. After two hours for four kilometres I arrive in Livinhac le Haut a few minutes ahead of my companions and spot a bench in the tiny town square where there is another pilgrim sitting.

I join him and we talk – in English, which is very unusual. He is 69, from Vichy and spent three years in London where he learned English. Last year he started the chemin in Le Puy with his sister, a year older than him and very close. They got as far as Descazeville where her cancer and her diabetes made it impossible for her to continue. They returned home where she has since died. Now he has returned and is walking alone, in her memory. He tells me that he needs to have both knees replaced but wants to complete the walk to Santiago before he has this done. We bid each other “bon chemin” as he leaves.

The three from last evening arrive. They turn out to be two sisters, Annie from Lyon and Odile from Albertville, with Bernard from Lyon as well. Bernard is 60, the two sisters perhaps a little younger. We buy provisions in the tiny stores for lunch and for dinner, have a draft beer with a touch of peach syrup – this is new for me and I quite like it – and have a picnic lunch on a bench in the square as the town shuts down for its afternoon nap. We share our food and plan to do the same for dinner this evening. The gite we are heading for does not offer dinner.

Based on our experience from this morning,we decide to walk on the road to Chaunac. We are hoping to avoid the mud and the hills. We succeed in one of these. There is no mud, but the road climbs steadily, not steeply but consistently, practically all the way for the next four kilometres all the way to Chaunac. I cannot imagine what the chemin is like. We see the sign for Chaunac (it’s about 600 meters off the road) at the same time as we see the exit from the chemin here. It is muddy.

The gite is an isolated farmhouse on what appears to be a working farm. There is no-one here when we arrive just after two, but there is a handprinted sign welcoming us by name and telling us where to sleep. Each of the sleeping spaces exits directly outdoors. The beds are clean and there are pillows and blankets. That has been consistent in the gites so far this year. It is a nice touch.

We take off our boots and sit in the garden under a mature chestnut tree. When the sun is out, as it is now, it is just perfect. In the shade one needs the fleece. Bernard makes coffee using the truly ancient gas stove (it has an external tank sitting on the floor and one uses a match to light the burner).

I have a sleep for about 45 minutes, which is enough to rejuvenate me. Afterwards I sit outside and make my notes for the day. I also copy all my photos from my camera to my iPad. It allows me to see them better and it’s good security if I lose one or the other device. What I have lost, I discover (or fail to discover) is my little headlamp, so I will have to acquire a small flashlight when I can find an open store. That is one of the really exciting parts of this journey. Which stores will be open when?

The weather in the late afternoon is beautiful but cool. A huge thunderstorm rolls past us to the east, making a superb and menacing display. An hour later, another rolls over us, bringing marble-sized hail but little rain. This is a good thing, since my clothes are still on the line drying.

Supper is another shared experience. Since there is no dinner here, we have brought our own supplies. Besides us, there are four other people for dinner, a Swiss couple, who have walked from Geneva, and two French guys. The Swiss woman, from the German-speaking region of Switzerland, makes a big pot of pasta and potatoes. I have brought cauliflower, carrots, zucchini and onions, which I boil up in a big pot. Sausage and ham magically appear as do two bottles of red wine. There is lots of bread and even dessert! It is like the loaves and fishes – a little bit from each and we can’t finish all the food. We do, however, finish the wine with despatch.

At some point in the evening I tell the gathering about my Hike for Hospice. I have to explain the idea of palliative care, since not everyone has heard of a hospice. This is tricky for me in French, but we manage. They all think it’s a great idea when they understand it … and I tell them about a donation of 50 Euros that a dear friend in Germany, Ginette Parent from the Berlin area, has made to a German children’s hospice as part of my hike. If you are reading this and have not yet donated, I can remind you that at least two people will benefit from the donation: the person in the hospice and the donor.

It’s off to bed before 9, because it is cold, there is no diversion and we have a long walk, about 21 kms, tomorrow. Annie and Odile finish tomorrow at Figeac. Bernard will continue on a different route for another month. I am going to a place, La Cassagnole, a few kms south of Figeac. It is where Jean could find me accommodation.

You may notice that I sometimes post several blogs at the same time. That is because I am not always able to get wireless connections here. This is still a remote and very hilly part of France. So when I do get wireless I post everything that I have written since the last successful connection.

At breakfast this morning I discover that a 69-year-old pilgrim, a man from Marseilles, has died in the gite overnight. It is not announced and most people are unaware. I am told that he had been extremely stressed for the past few days and I wonder if it was the stress that brought on the cardiac crisis or whether his stress was the result of not feeling “right” and not being able to account for it. I will never know anything more about him except the time and place of his death. Memento mori.

I also discover that perhaps only half of the people who arrive here continue on the chemin. Apparently the 10-day walk from Le Puy to Conques is extremely popular, and Conques is certainly a destination by itself. That makes me feel quite confident about accommodation for the next few days. I am about to be disabused of this confidence.

I pay 5 Euros for a picnic lunch and off I go. It is sunny and quite warm although the weather forecast is for rain. I have packed my fleece, my long-johns and my rain gear, so I am wearing my expected gear; pants, shirt, undershirt, hat, etc. The exit from Conques is steeply downward to the Roman bridge over the river Dourdou, then a savage climb for the next kilometre. We climb 267 meters in a dense woods on a narrow switchback trail over a kilometre. That’s a 27% grade and, to give you an idea of the height, it is the equivalent of climbing stairs for about 90 stories. This is something I am not planning on doing every day! I take a lot of oxygen breaks on the way and I finally reach the top. This is the section that is described in one of the sites I found on the Internet as ” … bit of an uphill hike leaving Conques … ” A bit of British understatement!

It occurs to me that if I had continued last year, this section would have really frightened me, because of the evident risk of incurring a cardiac crisis, like the one that carried off the pilgrim in Conques last night. I am really happy that I went home and got reassurance from the medical community that there that is nothing wrong with my pulmonary-coronary system. What IS wrong with me I can manage.

I come out into a highland pastoral scene, cattle in the fields and extraordinary vistas. The trail is wide, crushed stone and feels like a reward for making it to the top of the gorge. It clouds over in the next hour and the wind comes up, but the rain holds off.

I catch up to a pilgrim talking to a local woman on an open section of the trail. She has a plant in a wheelbarrow, but is in no hurry to plant it. I stop to chat. When she, Sylvie, discovers that I am Canadian, I get a sharp lecture on the evils of the seal hunt and the whale hunt. I explain to her that we do not have a commercial whale hunt and the only people in Canada who hunt whales are the Inuit of the Far North, who hunt them only for food. I am not sure that she is convinced, but we part as friends.

The man with whom she is speaking is the 82-year-old pilgrim that other pilgrims have told me about. He is carrying a full backpack and a wooden staff … and I cannot keep up with his pace. He does, however, stop every few minutes so we speak for a few minutes, then separate. He tells me that he has been walking on the chemin since he was 62, for the last 20 years. Other pilgrims who have spoken with him have been told, by him, that one of the reasons he walks here is because his home life is less than stellar. I want to announce right here, right now, that my home life IS stellar and that is NOT why I am here (If any of you were wondering).

The trail goes up and down a lot of relatively small ravines, so over the course of the day, I probably double the height of the first high climb out of Conques. Every hilltop is a personal victory.

I can tell you here that I have had a few psychological crises over the past few day, usually at some point on one of these long steep climbs. They run along the lines of; “Guy, what on earth are you doing here? You are sucking for air, your heart rate is out of sight, your legs hurt, this mud sucks (and it DOES suck), you wonder when the knees are going to fail and your fingers are going numb because you are holding the poles so tightly. And you don’t even know why you are here. Why don’t you quit?” And I don’t have an answer. Then I eventually get to the top and in a few (few varies directly with the height of the climb) minutes all is well.

The wind comes up to a gale. Happily it is warm and dry, but it is sufficiently gusty that it blows me around. I have to be very careful to keep my footing. Today for over 5 hours of walking over trails and on country roads I do not hear or see a car until I am almost in Descazeville. The absence of noise is quite precious to me. I can hear birds, the wind,, water running (sometimes I am in it) and my own footsteps, sometimes squishy in the mud. But my boots are excellent and my feet are dry and comfortable.

Eventually (after 6 hours for 20 km – which should give you an idea of the difficulty of this section) I descend into Descazeville, a town on the other end of the attractive scale from Conques. It is industrial, not ancient, but when almost every small town in France is losing its children to the cities, Descazeville is thriving. It is not pretty but it’s working. I arrive at the Gite Volets Bleus (Blue Shutters) to be greeted warmly by Jean, a young man who has been expecting me. Daniel gave him very clear instructions about looking after me, apparently. I have a lower bunk in a small room with three bunks, so it is quite cosy.

There is a real concerted effort to manage bed-bugs. Here the backpacks stay outside in a secure enclosed space and the traveller brings in only what is needed. Likewise, boots and poles remain outside under overhead cover.

After getting myself settled in (laundry and shower) I ask Jean if he will call ahed for me to get a bed for tomorrow night. He does … and I learn about the 1st of May weekend in France. It is a major, major exercise to get a bed or a room anywhere. I had not anticipated this problem. After several failed attempts he gets me a bed in a gite about 8 kms from here in Chaunac, with breakfast but no dinner. I will need to pick up dinner en route tomorrow. He is also trying to find me a place in Figeac for the next night. I am confident that I won’t have to spend the night on a park bench somewhere. I could, of course, be quite wrong about this. I shall see.

Jean has just told me that he has a confirmed place for me in Figeac for the night after tomorrow. I tell him … and I mean it … that he is a gentleman. It is actually about 5 km outside of Figeac, in La Cassagnole, which is in the wrong direction but I don’t care. I will likely take a taxi from Figeac to get there.

Here is a little oasis in a mostly industrial town. I dry my clothes on a line in a big garden – the wind has them dry in 15 minutes. I discover when I am undressing from my walking clothes to my in-the-village clothes that I thought that I had inadvertently stolen someone else’s sock, since I have three heavy socks in my bag, where there should have been two. The mystery is made clear when I take off my socks prior to washing them. On my left foot I have the correct combination, light sock under, heavy sock over. On my right foot, however, there is no heavy sock to take off because I had never put it on. I have walked all day in a very light under-sock on one foot – with no ill effects (apparently).

I have noticed that the ring finger on my left hand is a little numb and a little bruised again. I have discovered why. When I descend, I have the poles in front of me and I use that finger on each hand to control the top of the pole. I am trying to use the other fingers to take the pressure off this one or I will have the honour of naming the latest medical phenomenon, the “chemin de St. Jacques amputation”. I am hoping to avoid this. But it really is weird.

Dinner with, mostly in one group, 15 French, one Swiss and one Korean is interesting and fun. The Swiss woman is German-Swiss and speaks little French (so we speak German), the Korean comes in late, bows and sits at the very end of the table and the 15 French and I carry on an animated conversation, of which I understand anywhere from 5 to 50 percent depending on who is speaking and the topic. One of the things that I have noticed is that as I tire, my level of comprehension steadily diminishes until it extinguishes in a last little puff of light. They are all properly amazed by my age … as am I. It is a wonderful meal and I really enjoy myself. One of the Frenchmen has walked the camino and thumbs through my book, exclaiming at the photos. Of course he recognises most of the places. When the wine runs out we go to bed. Good move.

I am staying over for another day in Conques where, surprise, it has started to rain lightly. The weather continues to be a grind and the hills are higher and steeper than I expected, but that is the trouble with expectations. They have a way of jumping up and biting you. Physically I am doing fine. Uphill is slow, but manageable. Downhill is not a problem. Many folks have knee problems in the descents. I touch wood and have no issues at the moment. My blood glucose numbers are fine each morning.

My traveling companions are leaving today. I shall be very sorry to see them go. They have been gracious, friendly and hugely supportive. Daniel has already arranged for my accommodation tomorrow night about 20 kms down the road. He has even organized that if I get too tired I can call ahead to the gite and they will send someone to pick me up on the road. The improvement to my French since my arrival has been profound. I still fail to understand a discussion between two French-speakers, or when I get tired, but it has improved immeasurably. Cassandre has been a big help in this.

Daniel and Arlette Borzakian have walked the chemin together five times since 2004. They are the kind people who took me under their wing when I went entirely the wrong way out of Estaing a few days ago. Their first pilgrimage was from Arles to Santiago, the southern-most route in France, then in reverse from Santiago to Le Puy en Velay, then from Seville to Santiago and the Portuguese route to Santiago and this year from Le Puy to here. They are also experienced hospitaliers, scheduled to volunteer at one of the religious gites in St. Come d’Olt in July.

Daniel told me that the reverse part in Spain was difficult because the return route is unmarked – no yellow arrows. He said that it added about 300 km to the walk, because he got lost a lot. In France the GRs are hiking routes and are therefore marked in both directions.

Let me tell you a little bit about some of the pilgrims here. You already know about the family with the donkey.

There is a Dutch couple here, about my age, who started from home near Utrecht and are walking to Santiago. They are camping out, so staying here overnight is very unusual for them. A brother- and sister-in-law are accompanying them with a caravan, so if they get tired, they get a ride and return in the morning to where they finished the day before to continue their pilgrimage.

I mentioned the Belgian from Antwerp earlier, last seen a few days ago in another gite. He has shown up here and is ecstatic. He is exactly half-way in his journey of 2600 km and is feeling confident about going on for another 8 or 9 weeks all the way to Santiago.

I meet Catherine, a very pretty blonde pilgrim from Oakville, originally from Belgium, travelling with her friend from Belgium. She tells me that she knows exactly why she is here. She is here to add balance to her life. She finds Canadian suburbia a little confining and makes these pilgrimages to help restore her.
I meet Nicolas Dubuc, who runs a shop here where he creates beautiful glass beads. And plays Chinese music in the background. He is tall, big, good-looking, black hair and the beginnings of a pony-tail. He spends six months here, from April through September, when the tourist season ends. Then he spends the next six months touring the world. He has cycled through Africa, travelled through China and Mongolia, next year it will be South America. He loves meeting people, exchanging stories and learning what geological marvels exist in their part of the world.

As I am walking back towards the gite, I meet two pretty young women, Fanny Cosnard from Switzerland and Juimie Desroches from Quebec. The last time I saw them was in Aumont-Aubrac at the Ferme du Barry. They have been traveling together and have just arrived here. We greet each other like old friends and I ask them to join me for a coffee or something at one of the small bars here. We sit outside and we talk – actually, I talk. We end up discussing relationships and we have a deep and fascinating discussion. Both are amazed that I have been married for so long and, I assure them, still happily married.

They are both a little concerned about marriage. It seems frightening and dangerous. Given the divorce and separation rate, I am not surprised by their concerns. I tell them that one reason our marriage has been a success is that we both respect the other person. That does not mean that we never disagree or miscommunicate or get really annoyed with the other person (who is being unreasonable) or have what the politicians refer to as “open and frank discussions”, but we do always end up sorting out whatever it is that is the immediate problem. I also trot out the old cliche, “it’s not about meeting the right mate, it’s about being the right mate”. I suggest that when they are in a relationship, short or long, always look for the signs of respect. In my opinion, it’s an accurate measure of whether the relationship can last.

At dinner I sit with François-René Duchable, a concert pianist. He is perhaps 60, small, intense, hands move constantly and his hair is wild. He has played in Toronto, Ottawa, Montreal and Calgary, but after years of international travel, now limits his concerts to northern Europe.

I am also tapped again at dinner to do the English reading at the pilgrim service in the abbey. I do it, again apparently being the only English speaker at the ceremony.

When I return to the gite to go to bed, I meet Mike from Sydney. He is perhaps a little younger than me, lean, tall, looks as if he has led a hard and interesting life. We talk for perhaps half an hour. He tells me that this is his third time on the camino. First one was the Camino Frances, the same one that I walked five years ago. He said that he was elated (“pumped” was the word he used) when he walked into the square in front of the cathedral in Santiago. The second walk was from Seville. He described it as a month of flat and boring and when he arrived in Santiago, he was so disillusioned with the crowd in front of the cathedral that he had to leave. It was just a party. This is the third one and he is really questioning why he is doing this. He volunteers that he is an atheist “from a mostly atheist country” and is starting to think that this really only works if you have some kind of faith. We discuss this for a bit, come to no conclusion and both head off to bed. We both have a long walk tomorrow and having looked at the guidebook, I think that I am in for an interesting start to the day as I climb up out of another gorge.

I have run again into a few people who make a cult of authenticity. I find that bizarre, especially here, since the pilgrim path from Le Puy en Velay to Santiago, if it ever existed, is certainly not the same routing as the GR 65, the hiking trail that we are directed to whenever we ask about the Chemin de St. Jacques. Some people have a strict set of rules about being a pilgrim.

One must:
start at Le Puy or Saint Jean Pied de Port or some other “official” starting point,
walk a long distance – longer is always better,
keep to the official marked route,
never ride a bicycle,
make a strenuous effort,
carry one’s own gear in a backpack,
visit every religious site en route,
use a wooden staff (in a pinch, the collapsible poles are acceptable),
never allow one’s gear to be carried by car to a destination,
never, never, allow oneself to be carried by car to a destination,
sleep in simple hostels, preferably in a multi-bed dormitory,
eat simple meals, preferably cooked by oneself in a kitchen in a hostel,
eschew anything that seems like fun – this is a serious business.

I think that I am a little unkind with the last point, but it certainly is how it comes across when I am listening to an “authentic” pilgrim.

Before I get started, let me say that if you hold these views and wish to follow these rules in order to authenticate your own experience, then I am absolutely committed to supporting you. I would not presume to judge your view of authenticity … as it applies to you. But please do not use these rules to apply to another in order to accept or deny the authenticity of their experience. It is about not judging the authenticity of the experience of others.

And since you have asked, let me give you my view of all this.

There is no official starting point. Once I have decided to make my way on a journey like this, then the moment I leave my door at home with my gear, I have passed the starting point for my pilgrimage. The pilgrimage starts in my own head, not at a geographic location. Places like St. Jean Pied de Port or Le Puy en Velay are just places on a map.

The distance is irrelevant. The good folks in Santiago have a set of rules that provide the “compostela’, the proof of completion, to those who walk the last 100 kms or cycle the last 200 kms to Santiago. If it is good enough for them, it’s good enough for me. They have been at this pilgrimage thing a long time. For me, while it is true that a longer time en route makes for a more profound experience for me, it does not follow that a short time en route means a shallow experience for someone else. I think that it is folly to attempt to judge the depth of someone else’s commitment to their pilgrimage using a scale of distance.

The route one takes is irrelevant. If I choose to take a different route to get to the same place, does this make me a lesser pilgrim? A thousand years ago and for many hundreds of years, pilgrims travelled anywhere, anyhow they could to get to their intended destination. Why would this be different now? Just because someone has marked a particular route as “the” route, that merely means that this is a route that will get the pilgrim to where he or she wants to go. The marking does not, in my view, exclude any other route that will get you to your destination for the day.

The mode of transport is irrelevant. Riding a bicycle or a donkey or a horse is just as authentic as walking. The reason most pilgrims walked in earlier days is because they did not have an option. I don’t doubt that folks who had access to a horse would use it to make their pilgrimage. A friend of mine in Victoria, BC, told me that she was told that she was not a “real pilgrim” because she rode a bicycle to Santiago. In defense, she stopped telling people how she made her camino.

I think the mark of a real pilgrim is not the level of effort they make to get there. The mark of a real pilgrim is their intention and no-one … no-one except the individual can know another’s intention. Think about it. If the pilgrimage experience starts from your own front door, then the taxi, the aircraft, the train, the bus, whatever means you use to get here is one of your modes of transport on your pilgrimage. And how many pilgrims now walk home after reaching their destination? Used to be pilgrims HAD to walk home. There were no options. Does taking a plane home nullify the authenticity of the experience? I would argue not.

How your supporting clothing and equipment gets from point to point is irrelevant. Carrying it on your own back has a couple of advantages. Firstly, it’s cheap and secondly it really cuts down on what you decide to carry. The authentic pilgrim of years past didn’t carry gear in an Osprey backpack with a Camelback water dispenser and didn’t wear high-tech boots. Again, I suspect that medieval pilgrims, if they could afford it, would have had some-one else carry their gear.

Consider, for a moment, one of the earliest known international pilgrims to Santiago – Gottschalk, the Bishop of Le Puy en Velay, who made the journey in 950 AD. When he got home, he celebrated by causing the erection of a chapel on top of one of the two volcanic cones, the Puys, which named the town. The bishop was a high-level cleric and had access to the wealth of his diocese. When he travelled, I don’t doubt that he rode on horseback and that he had retainers with him who looked after his gear. Since he was a wealthy traveller in a dangerous and lawless time, he would have been accompanied by an armed guard. Someone else made his meals and looked after his needs. He may have stayed in simple stage-places or he may have stayed in the best accommodation available. He may have eaten simply or he may not. He may have enjoyed his wine or he may not. Is he less authentic based on any of this?

So here is my point. Authenticity or the lack of it is not based on anything exterior. It is based solely on how true one is to one’s own intentions. Authenticity, as defined in the list at the beginning, is simply adherence to a set of rules. If they work for you, enjoy your authentic experience. If you choose to follow a different set of rules … or no rules at all but remain true to your own intention, then in my not-entirely humble view, you are having an authentic pilgrim experience.