So we’re at dinner last night in Le Soulie, having a great time. Our host, Michel, doesn’t speak much English, but he actually engineered the seating at the table to surround me with English speakers (all young Parisians), along with another fellow who speaks Spanish. I’ve never had that happen before, but it was awfully thoughtful. Anyway, the subject came up, as it inevitably does: where are you walking tomorrow? Why, I thought, couldn’t they ask something simple, like a question involving religion or politics?
Today, I walked to Conques. I’ll sleep there tomorrow. Tonight, I’m sleeping in Saint-Côme-d’Olt, where I slept two nights ago. Who’s on first?
The day in three acts:
Act 1: Hospitality has been amazing the last two nights, at Gite del Roumiou and Le Soulie, which also means I haven’t gotten anything done in terms of processing the daily experiences for the book. I woke up at 6am to get in an hour’s worth of banging away on the keyboard before breakfast. Instead, one of our hosts was already preparing breakfast and he invited me in for coffee, and Michel joined us soon after. As we chatted, I carefully explained my plans for the day, complicated as they are, and Michel’s guest hospitalero, whose name I regret not catching, translated for us. Once he understood, he grabbed a book on the shelf and pointed to a map outlining the route from Aubrac. He preferred the GR-6 over the GR-65, he said, and encouraged me to check it out.
Now, I don’t have many vices, but when someone mentions an alternate route that I haven’t yet walked, my eye gets twitchy, my hands start clutching at the air, and a small trickle of drool seeps from the corner of my mouth. I can’t help it. I thanked him for the temptation—and for the exceptional stay—and marched onward.
I was in no hurry. I had 15km to cover to Conques and I didn’t have to be there until after noon, so I clicked on cruise control and coasted down the hill. Then the drizzle started. A light pitter patter followed. And then the sky released the hounds, and the rain came down every step from then on until Conques. Knowing that I’ll be back very soon, I abandoned any thought of photos or sightseeing, hoping for better conditions. Instead, I just focused on not wiping out on the slick rocks through the endless descent.
Conques is a lovely place, but the magic does take a small hit when you’re wet and cold and can’t locate a viable heat source. The cafés lining the cathedral were welcoming enough, and I gladly inhaled a café au lait from one, but they all have their doors thrown wide open to the (usually) temperate outdoors. Instead I was wet and cold and, indoors or not, I stayed wet and cold. I needed a more secure, shut-off location, so I headed to the treasury. I’ve never gone before; jeweled reliquaries are like ceramic pottery for me—impressive enough in the abstract, but not something that I can typically interface with for more than a few minutes before my eyes glaze over. But this time I had incentive! So I slowly circled the small rectangular room, taking in each intricate detail, trying to put myself in the mindset of the craftsman working these materials 800 years ago. And while this is not my preferred artistic medium, it’s not hard to be stunned by the masterpiece, the reliquary of Ste Foy. No photos allowed, unfortunately. After that, I went to the cathedral, where I caught the last few minutes of an organ performance, followed by a mid-day mass.
Act 2: Right as pilgrims lined up to take communion, I shuttled out of the cathedral to hustle uphill to the parking lot on the far side of town. I had to catch the 12:30 pick-up of the Compostelle’Bus, heading back to Aubrac.
A funny thing about hiking sometimes is you can spend hours hiking to get to some impressive viewpoint, only to discover a bunch of other people already there, having driven to a much closer access point. On the Camino, in particular, you feel like you’re in the middle of nowhere, but it’s easy to be clueless to the fact that a major highway lurks just a few minutes away.
I bring that up because this bus trip reinforced for me just how isolated Conques is. There’s nothing close by. The only roads into Conques are small and windy, and we never arrived at a point at which I wasn’t convinced we were about to careen head-on into the car whipping around the corner towards us—especially given that there was an endless stream of pilgrims coming towards us. We didn’t come across a road that moved in a straight line until Estaing. It’s a super convenient service, but it’s not the most peaceful reintroduction to motorized transportation after a week.
I was headed back, because I’m trying to walk as close to everything as I can, including the different variants. Since I took the Bonneval approach previously, I needed to return now to do the GR-65 from Aubrac. Except Michel, playing the role of the devious serpent, told me about that sweet GR-6 apple this morning, and I was busy talking myself into getting some experience with that, since I’ve done the GR-65 portion three times and have good gpx tracks for it.
On the whole, the ride took more out of me than the morning’s walk did, but my clothes dried out, the rain stopped, and I emerged in Aubrac ready to roll—after getting another tart from the bakery, of course.
Act 3: It was 2:30pm and I had 26km to go. Well, 26km by way of the GR-65. Who knew how long the GR-6 was. I eyeballed the map, though, and it seemed roughly equivalent. How bad could it be? (Spoiler: it was longer, though not egregiously so.)
I enjoyed the GR6 on the whole. It was entirely off-road, except for the parts immediately leaving/arriving in towns at the beginning and ending, and it followed long sections of historic stone roads. When it descended, it generally had a gentle grade, which is important in a day filled with downhill. The only bummer is that it delivers walkers to the backend of Saint-Chély-d’Aubrac, so you have to backtrack through the town if you want to get anything.
From there, it was the GR-65 on to Saint-Come. I arrived at 7:30pm. It was amazing to me that I passed seven other pilgrims as I made the final approach. People walk much, much later in the day here than they do, on average, in Spain. It’s just a completely different rhythm of life.
