My eyes were on the horizon as I slipped out of the gite early this morning. While it’s been rare on this walk to leave before 7am, this morning I was on the road just before 6am, due to a very particular goal. That timing, though, combined with my northward trajectory, afforded me the opportunity to see much of the sunrise play out in front of me. Head up, surveying the distant terrain, I enjoyed the cool early air.
And then the sun was joined by two other orbs, which quickly took more precise focus: a pair of hot-air balloons. With that, my attention shifted immediately to my mid-walk destination, the famed Rocamadour, near where those balloons would have launched. It’s funny how you can intellectually know that a place is proximate, just a short drive by car, and still be stunned by any visual indicator of its presence. Rocamadour was just around the corner and I would be there in this very same morning! It was time to focus, for now, on the walk.
From Montfaucon, the GR46 continues its quiet, mellow journey. The walking has been easy here—no major, extended shifts in elevation, nor particularly rocky footing. The hardest part is the limited facilities and that recurred this morning, where only Couzou, a village 15km away, offered any chance at water. And nothing more. Fortunately, the bar-épicerie back in Montfaucon was well-stocked and pilgrim-friendly, so I was prepared.
Shortly after Couzou, the trail transitioned into a sharp descent, notable for its rarity, and so focused was I on managing my steps that I didn’t realize the dramatic transition that was unfolding around me. For the descent brought me from the higher fields into the small cleft carved out of limestone by the implacable Alzou River over the millennia. Recognition dawned and my eyes immediately shot across and to the right. Cliffs stared back. Not yet, then. My heartbeat accelerating, I sped forward as the trail turned and flattened out, heading eastward now. Whenever the trees thinned, I stopped again and reevaluated. A few houses now. And then, a small tower on the clifftop. And finally: Rocamadour. Does any village, any sanctuary, in the world have a more dramatic visage? Take a mountain goat perched precariously—and yet absolutely securely—to a cliff’s face, transform it into a town, and you have Rocamadour. There’s just nothing like it.
The clock was ticking and Dave-the-walker had already fallen on Dave-the-planner’s bad side. My particular goal today was to reach Rocamadour before 10am, in the hope of beating the tour buses. I climbed through a series of medieval gates and suddenly found myself at the base of the Grand Escalier, the imposing stairs leading to the sanctuary. I climbed—not on my knees, thank you very much—and quickly entered the church. Empty. Mass completed next door and I shuttled into the smaller chapel with the black Madonna. I sat and took a breath. (I will note, at this point, that I’m content wearing a mask as long as it’s needed, but I don’t enjoy popping it on right after a long walk and sustained ascent!)
I had five minutes of peace. Then the first group arrived, queueing up at the altar to each take the same picture of the lady and move on. (And hey, I took it too! It made me wonder if places could just have a qr-code you could scan at the entrance to immediately download a high quality image of the picture everyone wants and save us all the trouble.)
An overnight in Rocamadour is well worth the experience. The buses leave before dinner time and a very small group remains for the evening. It’s blissful. This time around, though, it didn’t make sense for me as the day was young, so I walked on to Gramat. Now on the GR-6, the walking remained a pleasure. Indeed, this section, following the Alzou through the narrow cliffs, is one of my favorite. The neat thing about walking in this direction is that the four ruined mills you pass become more impressive as you proceed, with the last—the Moulin du-Saut—taking your breath away with the narrow passage and neighboring waterfall.
Now in Gramat, I’m sleeping in Le Grand Couvent, where they have a small dorm room set aside for pilgrims outside of their main building. The facilities are humble, but the wifi—the wifi!—is robust. It’s the first night I’ve had a reliable connection at “home” in nearly a week, so I’ve got many hours of feverish catch-up ahead of me.
