This time, the lightning show arrived right around midnight. Must be an Italy fan. While the thunder rumbled forebodingly enough, most of the noise was generated by the campers who were thoroughly enjoying the show. I squeezed my head between pillow and mattress, hoping the storm and the campers would wear themselves out shortly, clearing the way for a quiet morning.
For the first time on this trip, I set out under the cover of darkness. With back-to-back days pushing the high-end of my daily distances, I anticipated that the last few hours wouldn’t be as fun-filled as others, but I was counting on the splendor of the trail to carry me through. At last, I was dipping down into the Célé Valley! How could I spare any consideration for sore feet in the midst of that glorious terrain?
Fortune favored me at first, as dry conditions prevailed, but deeply overcast skies ruled out any hope of a satisfying sunrise. I slipped through “downtown” Béduer, secured my headlamp into place, and slid precariously down the dark footpath into the valley proper, with cornfields greeting my arrival. Lightning suddenly flashed in the distance to my right. I dutifully counted seconds. Thunder tolled. Eleven. I can work with eleven.
It could be understood and forgiven if the opening stage of the Célé Valley variant, usually stretching from Figeac to Espagnac-Sainte-Eulalie, made the skeptical pilgrim question the praise heaped upon this route. There’s certainly nothing bad about it. The first half of the walk, though, rarely transcends “pleasant” or “peaceful.” The village of Corn offers the first glimpse of something more intriguing, though, with its magical creekside rest area. And about that time, the valley’s famous cliffs begin to make their presence known.
So, too, on this occasion did the lightning, flashing the brightening sky in several successive bursts. It took ten seconds for the thunder to roll into town this time. That’s fine, I thought. It’s still a good distance behind me. I can keep this up.
At that moment, the rain started. It would persist, without pause, for the next four hours.
When I dream about walking, I dream about the Célé Valley. And as I pulled my poncho snugly over my head, glancing left and right, recognition slapped me squarely in the face. There would be no blue skies today, no resplendent views, no easy perches on rocks overlooking cliff faces. It would be an unremittent, unrepentant soaker, and that would be my lone experience for this year.
The rain streaked down my exposed arms. I knew I’d arrive in Espagnac before the bar was open, but I confirmed nonetheless. Tired pilgrims were drawing out their last slices of bread and jam, finding excuses to wait just a little longer to depart. Drops pelted my hood, beating a steady rhythm. I detoured downhill to Brengues, eager to grab something warm from its bakery; alas, it’s closed on Mondays and while the café had staff sitting and drinking coffee, it wasn’t yet open. The bottom of my poncho clung snugly to my soaked legs, a moist wrapper with a surprisingly secure grip. The downpour accelerated as I arrived in Saint-Sulpice, my shoes squelching like a drowning sailor.
With equal parts excitement and relief, I finally descended into Marcilhac-sur-Célé. Where would you choose to live on the chemin, if you could pick anywhere? My answer vacillates between Nasbinals and Marcilhac; no coincidence, given that those towns align with my favorite walks. Marcilhac has a wonderfully compact historic core, dramatic geography, and—most importantly—a consistently outstanding and prolific bakery. When I enter a boulangerie, I tend to whittle down my list of possible choices to one or two options in just a few seconds. In Marcilhac, though, I had to fuss over half a dozen possibilities before settling on a pizza with goat cheese and tomatoes, along with a tresse. They had coffee available (from a machine), so I finally got my first hit of caffeine on this day as well. Unfortunately, the only covered seating outside was occupied, so I went searching. I ended up finding a bench outside the tourist info kiosk that was half-dry. Squeezing in tightly against the wall, I took a deep breath and set upon my purchases.
The tresse was stale. Each bite was crunchy and dry, as though it had been sitting in the bakery for a couple of days. And the pizza… I reached in the bag to grab it and reflexively pulled my hand out, wondering if the bag had been set in a puddle. It hadn’t. The pizza’s crust, though, was soggy and close to collapsing like a derelict house’s plaster ceiling. I was hungry. I ate them both, regardless. I downed the machine coffee. The rain persisted. After all that, it took me far longer than it should have to discover a garbage can. I was ready to leave, ready to be done, ready to throw a little pity party in the middle of the road.
Instead, I went into Marcilhac’s restaurant for a proper café crème. I don’t know why I did; it was just read and react. The body made the decision of its own volition. The drink was a masterpiece—frothy, piping hot, and the size of a half-grapefruit. I sipped it slowly. It seems like I should be past the age at which I take notice of an action that smacks of maturation, of growing up and becoming a responsible adult, but here I was yet again, somehow impressed by whatever internal compulsion it was that wrested the shovel from my hands and helped me take the first step of the damn hole I’d burrowed into.
Reinvigorated, I began the ascent from Marcilhac back up to the cliffs. Dry conditions prevailed for the first time since first thing. I’d like to say that blue skies finally claimed the day; it’s the kind of lazy symbolism one would expect from a ham-fisted writer. Alas, within a half-hour the rains returned. They persisted much of the day and, if anything, became more relentless after I arrived in Cabrerets.
It didn’t matter, though. Like my waterproof poncho, the rain slipped down and away from me as quickly as it reached me. The day was mine. Not what I signed up for, not what I longed for, certainly not of much use at all from a photographic perspective, but somewhere in those 30 minutes in that Marcilhac café I let go of what wasn’t and found a way to enjoy what was. Because all the gray, all the wet, all the mud in the world couldn’t wipe away the beauty of the Célé Valley, and it was still mine for the remainder of the walk to Cabrerets.
