The Gite Le Monde Allant Vers is the smallest place I’ve stayed thus far, with only six pilgrim beds. It’s vertical aspirations far outpace its horizontal limitations, so much of my time there was oriented around the blue spiral staircase. Descending it one last time after breakfast this morning, I was surprised to discover that one of the two older French couples sharing the space with me last night were also headed northward on the GR-46. They hit the trail first, as I paused to mooch a bit more wifi off of the hotel’s generously unsecured network.
10 minutes later, I passed them. While we shared few words in common, I picked up the gist of the husband’s remarks swiftly enough. I was running past them, in quite a hurry! And no trekking poles? Highly dubious. I don’t need to know the exact words to understand the sentiment because the points about pace, in particular, are the first comments I typically hear when coming across pilgrims. They’re usually meant well, often involving some misplaced concern about me hurting myself or having a lesser experience. I find it makes me less interested in engaging in conversation, though, and that—in turn—probably reinforced their suspicion about me rushing along.
The thing is, I do walk quickly relative to pilgrims. My moving pace, something I only know because I walk with a gps a lot these days, is steadily around 6km/hour. That’s an effortless pace, though; I do it without thinking, without straining, just going. It’s comfortable. I enjoy it. I read a neurobiologist’s book on walking and the brain once, and he noted that research shows we do our best thinking when we’re walking at a pace that is just on the margins of comfortable, working the body but not demanding conscious attention. For me, that’s 6km.
Today’s walk, heading north from Vers (North! I never walk north!), was a marvelous, joyous, utterly relaxing day of walking. I did the bulk of it, from Vers to Labastide-Murat, in one go, just rolling down the chemin. From Vers, the route mostly follows dirt roads along the small river, cliffs still looming overhead. In time, those receded a bit, as the dirt roads shifted over to shady footpaths. As those trails wove through densely wooded hillsides, they often emerged into sunken islands of grass, blowing gently in an unfelt breeze, as self-assured clouds drifted aimlessly overhead.
And those clouds really were the stars of the day, like cherubs adorning a church ceiling, they reveled in their own easiness, piling together one moment and then drifting apart the next.
Before Labastide, the walk was interrupted only by the small town of Cras, where I topped off my water bottle and popped briefly into the small church. Just as quickly, I was back into the pocket fields. When you get into a flow state as a walker, it’s a marvelous feeling, little distinction to be drawn between yourself and the trail. It’s called a footpath for a reason; your feet and the path are partners, generations-old collaborators, the former giving shape to the latter. It’s a beautiful thing to feel both strong and weightless, striding and floating. I walk quickly, but I do not rush. (Unless it’s 12:15 and the damn épicerie is closing at 12:30 for three hours and I really do not have another option.)
And then I was in Labastide, a town the chemin does no favors to, bypassing the cheery center in favor of a dour back alley. I detoured to hit the Carrefour, in order to load up on supplies for dinner, and then took a break in the central plaza. From there, just a handful of km remained, with lovely small lakes marking each end of the walk.
I’m in Montfaucon tonight, where the old presbytery has been converted into a pilgrim gite. It’s aged, creaky, rough and tumble, and absolutely a perfect gite. A lush garden unspools out the back door, while the church is open next door. One other pilgrim has joined me thus far and a pilgrim-friendly bar/épicerie is operating down the road. I’m quite content to have a leisurely afternoon here and quite excited about returning to Rocamadour tomorrow.
