Today we're having a day off in Apt - Michael says it's OK. The walking is improving - we really enjoy the mornings, then something happens to my pilgrim spirit at the 10 km mark - when it becomes indignant and non-compliant. It recovers somewhat with food - usually bread and sardines or bread and cheese. Then the spirit goes into a dormant and dogged state until we get to our destination. I remember someone saying that you can always tell who the pilgrims are at Santiago de Compostella because they walk like Groucho Marx. That's me at the end of the day!
Two days ago we arrived in Reillanne. Exhausted- we ask around for the location of our Gite, an ancient Chateau and then walk down the road following the directions we were given. Some Gites are very coy about their location, and this Gite is apparently one of those. It's not so bad when your in a car, but when you're on foot at the end of a long day's walking, one gets despondent if it's not easy to locate. I sit down with the packs beside the track next to a sign that says Chateau but with a 'properte privee' sign and without the usual Gite D'etape emblem, while Michael goes on a reconnaissance mission. A bloke in a truck turns into the track - I ask him in my broken French - Gite ici? He looks non-plussed and repeats 'shit ici?' and says 'Non!' in an emphatic way and quickly puts his foot on the accelerator. An English couple walk up to us, and we ask them, and they point to the sign next to us, as if to indicate we really should open our eyes!
So, we walk down the track.
We arrive at the Chateau, which is very old and crumbling in parts, in a rambling garden. It has obviously been very grand in its day. There is a small sign pinned on the door on a piece of A4 paper that says in biro 'Gite', with an arrow to the back of the building. Relieved, we follow the arrow, down a crumbling flight of stairs, and are greeted by an assortment of dogs and honking geese, not used to the sight of weary pilgrims. A voice from the vegetable garden quietens the managerie and is followed by a woman emerging from the shrubbery, with a welcoming smile.
We are shown to our room inside the building, which seemed at first sight like something from the set of Cold Comfort Farm or Wuthering Heights. Our room looks out from the third floor into the tops of huge plane trees, and onto a large pool, strewn with autumn leaves and surrounded by a ruined Italianate fence.
The Gite is run by a woman, with the help of her daughter. We join them for a very pleasant meal later. Their English is as good as our French, so the conversation swings between french, english and spanish, with much gesticulation.
After a good night's sleep, and breakfast, our host kindly walks with us up to the village, telling me the names of various wild herbs along the way, and stuffing a bunch of something that she tells me goes well with fromage into a pocket on the outside of my backpack.
We walk to Cereste. Our Gite is easy to find and very pleasant. Our host is very friendly, and when we leave in the morning, tries to press a jar of homemade fig jam into our hands. I point to my gammy knee and thank her, but explain that it would be too heavy to carry.
The next morning we set off again, for Apt. Unbeknowns to us, Sunday morning is when a man takes his dog and his shotgun and goes out into the countryside for a spot of shooting. They blaze away on all sides. We hope it's not to pot a pilgrim. They wear brightly coloured orange hats and armbands, but I'm in my sparrow browns and Michael is not much easier to spot in his regulation blue outfit. As we walk through a thicket, close to where we can see a hunter but uncertain that he has seen us, I think I should break into a desperate and hopefully life-preserving whistle, choosing the zulu song, 'we are marching in the light of god' for the tune. Michael asks 'why are you whistling?' I tell him it's so I don't get shot. When we emerge from the thicket, we see the bemused hunter, who gives us a wave. We survive.
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