Bonjour hi,

It’s Thursday, July 24. I’m comfortably ensconced in a four-poster bed in an old farmhouse in a small, rural hamlet a few k from Retournac, which is a small town on the Loire river, just outside of Auvergne. Today is my first day off of the trail in two weeks; so far, it’s been 13 days’ hiking for a total of about 290 km or 180 miles.

Since completing the pilgrimage to Shikoku, I was surprised that so many of you had good things to say about the ad hoc newsletter I threw together to document that trip; a couple of you even asked me if I was going to do the same thing again this time. My answer is alas no; this is a very different beast & I don’t think there’s value in me saying much about it. That being said, though, I did want to write at least something about what I’m doing, how long it’s going to take, and so on and so forth.

Ultimately, I’m not sure where to start. I’m here thanks to a number of more-or-less random life experiences that have culminated in having the time, physical ability, and resources to do this. One thing that comes to mind is this: when I was an undergraduate at Berkeley, I was lucky to have tested out of most undergraduate requirements thanks to AP exams. That meant that I was mostly free to take classes at random for no reason other than they sounded interesting; that’s how I wound up with a double major and a nearly-completed minor in Dutch studies, but what’s more relevant here is that I took a single semester of French language for the hell of it. That was enough to provide me with a rudimentary ability to get the basics done without demanding anyone speak English; more importantly, though, that led to a friendship with this guy Charlie, who was also in a German class that semester. It turns out we had both been exchange students in Germany… and the happy accident of seeing the same guy in two classes led to us hanging out, him introducing me to his then-girlfriend, and then (long story!) me eventually managing to graduate in spite of being a generally unserious student thanks to their assistance and even intervention on my behalf with a professor who’d (rightfully!) failed me - if they hadn’t asked them to give me another chance and worked with me on what I needed to do to pass that class, well, I might not have graduated, might not have found work, and so on. Sometimes, learning French from a moderately annoying German TA who refused to explain anything to my satisfaction apparently inadvertently leads to being retired at 55, eating Trader Joe’s dried apricots in bed, and typing away at some kind of newsletter.

I digress.

To digress even further, this also has something to do with one of the happiest accidents of my life, which happened in 2007: Dan and I had moved back to California without bothering to get jobs first; within a week of arriving in San Diego, some recruiter saw my résumé on Monster.com, and asked me if I’d be interested in testing Microsoft security updates for a company that designed and sold IV infusion pumps. That’s the same company that I left in March 2025; the stability of that job did wonders for me personally. It was a godsend to work with people I respected on quality stuff and to be well compensated for that work. (Shout out once again to Jeff J. for hiring me, Rick N. as well, and to Chris G., Robert A., Terrence C., Candy A., Brad T., and to so many other people I won’t name here - you made all the difference!)

That job also involved a fair amount of travel at first; when I joined, the company had just begun shipping wirelessly-connected IV infusion pumps; as with any FDA regulated medical device, it was hugely important to track down and investigate any potential issues with the product. I don’t recall there ever being any kind of issues with patient safety, but yup, there were issues (or, rather, “issues”) with wireless connectivity, many of which had to do with wireless networking in general being kind of a new, not-well-understood technology in the early 21st century. Yes, there were occasionally flaws in the infusers’ software that we would correct, but most of the time, you’d wind up visiting a hospital and essentially provide some real-time training on how and why their wireless network wasn’t doing what they were expecting it to do… but again, I digress. That wasn’t necessarily my area of expertise - I was more the VMware/Hyper-V/virtualization guy - but it was during those trips to hospitals that I started looking around at the kind of people that were in them as patients, not as staff - and realizing that oh shit, those people are me. I was just shy of my 40th birthday at the times, definitely overweight (although in an admittedly pretty dang sexy, bearish kind of way), and realized that I probably should make some, you know, lifestyle changes before things got serious. I’d overheard too many conversations about diabetic patients, seen too many dudes that looked like me with amputations… all that fun stuff. So I decided okay, yeah, time for a change. So I changed.

For the longest time, my Outlook calendar at work had a recurring 10 am meeting that blocked an hour out of my schedule - and I also got in the habit of swinging by Trader Joe’s first thing Monday morning on the way to work and buying a week’s worth of lunches. At 10 am, I would go for a walk around the nature trail on the other side of the street from my office; my Tilley hat hung on an IV pole in my cubicle when I wasn’t wearing it. (It has since died and now exists in a landfill somewhere in Shikoku.) After my walk, I’d eat my Trader Joe’s lunch and finish my day at the office. Pretty simple stuff; after a year or so of that, I had managed to get my weight down to a more sustainable level (although if I’m being honest, there was a year or so when it was too low; bears look funny when they’re too thin, yeesh. Hello, involuntary celibacy!) and had also managed to embark on ever-increasingly difficult hikes, the high points being (pun obviously intended) stuff like San Gorgonio in California (OMG, still can’t believe I managed that as a day hike), Mt. Fuji, and one day when I think I hiked nearly 30 miles in Mt. Laguna just to see if I could (answer: yes, but oh man, NOT a fun thing to do).

More importantly, my partner Dan, who is way more serious about hiking than I’ll ever be, took off most of 2015 to hike the Pacific Crest Trail… and happened across a New York Times article in 2016 that mentioned the Moselsteig, a 4-week long trail in Germany. It sounded perfect to me; that was my first introduction to long-distance hiking. Unlike the PCT, which requires serious backcountry skills, carrying a tent, cooking for yourself, and so on, long-distance European trails are generally physically less challenging - and more importantly for me, very well integrated with tourist infrastructure. It is absolutely normal for a long-distance hiker here to plan a trip from inn to inn, from country lodge to small hotel to a self-catering flat to an inn to a winery with guest rooms… it’s just easy. I spent much of 2016 at work figuring out how to hike the Moselsteig, which I did in September 2017… and it was awesome. You could spend all day every day outside, enjoying random sights (oh look, an ancient Roman well! Part of the Maginot line! A touch farm! A distillery!) before arriving at a comfortable place with a hot shower and a bed - and maybe even find a good meal as well. And it was pretty cheap - you could easily spend less on four weeks wandering around the German countryside than you might on a single week in a city (Sitges? Guerneville? You get the idea).

Over the last ten years or so, I’ve hiked a fair amount; the best trips were always with Dan (he’s not only amazing company, but is way better than I am with regards to navigating - we make a great team!), but I’ve done a number solo. From memory, the list is basically this:

• The O circuit at Torres del Paine

• Part of the Fish River Canyon route in Namibia

• The High Sierra Camps in Yosemite

• The Moselsteig

• Part of the Rennsteig in Germany

• Week-long trips in the Salzkammergut (Austria), Alsace, Burgundy, and Beaujolais

• The Haute Route between Chamonix and Zermatt

• The Via Alpina, from Vaduz to Montreux

• The chemin Stevenson and the Echappée Jurasienne

And then at some point I decided I was going to retire and tackle two of the big ones immediately after retiring. The first was Shikoku, which I spent a year researching and planning; the second was the Camino de Santiago, which I spent almost no time on in terms of research or planning. Back in 2021, when I was kicking around for something to do post-covid vaccine availability, I wound up in France for a month; I hiked the Jurassic Escape with two wonderful Englishmen, spent two weeks on the Stevenson trail afterwards, and met my parents in Paris briefly before flying home. While I was on the Stevenson trail - which starts in Le Puy-en-Velay, two days’ walk from where I am at the moment - I repeatedly wound up talking with French people (or Belgian, or Canadian) about walking, and every single one of them had nothing but high praise about the Camino.

Relatedly, the company that I had used to book the Stevenson trail relatively last-minute in 2021 was fantastic; their website (at pedestria.net) was something I would idly check every so often at work, wondering if I’d get to do another hike with them someday. They specialize in Camino de Santiago trails; what caught my eye was a bit I hadn’t heard of before, a 2-week walk from Cluny to Le Puy. I mean, if you’re going to walk the damn Camino, why not start somewhere you’re unfamiliar with? So I did.

In two more days, I’ll arrive at Le Puy; I’ve been there before, but it’ll be different this time. I failed to get a credencial in Cluny - and heck, I only just now realize I should have ordered one online and picked it up in Lyon - but this time I’ll have to get one there, which apparently means going to Mass this Sunday morning. But again, I digress.

Here’s what this trip has been so far:

Saturday, July 5: I wander down the hill to the Enterprise car rental agency across the street from Revivals and pick up a black Mazda. It is spectacularly lame, but cheap and perfect for the drive to LAX in the morning. In the evening, I head out to the Tool Shed to celebrate Craig’s birthday, being careful to stay sober because of the big day ahead.

Sunday, July 6: I am up and out of the house way too early; upon pulling out of the driveway, the rental car starts warning me about low tire pressure errors. Fun! So I stop at Vons, fill up the tank, put some air in the tires, and hope for the best. After stopping for a pee break and an iced coffee at McDonald’s, I arrive at my brother’s place near Knott’s Berry Farm, spend some time with him and his awesome wife going over final details for their trip to London later in the week, and then head to LAX. At LAX, Enterprise are incredibly generous and refund me the entire rental price of the car (!) because of the tire thing. Checking my one bag takes absolutely forever - about half an hour - even though there are only two people ahead of me in line. Because my Air France ticket has two segments, one of which is a train, the bag-check kiosk doesn’t know what to do, so I’m stuck waiting behind people with some obviously very complicated check-in issues. Actually checking my bag takes less than a minute, TSA PreCheck also less than a minute, and then boom, I’ve spent $35 on access to the Virgin Clubhouse because I am very, very hungry. That $35 was very well spent; the lunch they served was spectacular and the lounge was virtually empty.

The Air France flight is decidedly meh; I’ve spent $40 to book a seat without a passenger next to me, but the in-flight video system stutters every few minutes, the seat pitch is incredibly tight, and the food is somehow terrible; I’d flown Air France once before, back in 2008, and it was great, but this time? Le crap. Guessing it’s better out of CDG, maybe? But whatever, it’s only 11 hours, right?

Monday, July 7: We land early. After a long delay waiting for someone to fix the jetbridge, we disembark; it’s a long walk and a train ride to baggage claim, interrupted by what at first seemed to be an incredibly long line for immigration, but which turned out to be OK for US passport holders - it was all of the other non-EU, non-US passport holders who were suffering, I’m guessing mainly from Francophone countries, mostly African. That line was not pretty. A fellow travel got stuck in the same automated ID-checking pod next to me for a while; we started cracking jokes about it before the agent eventually realized that the system was misbehaving, so we were released from our holding pens, had our passport stamps, and off we were. Easy.

Because of the delays, I arrived just as my bag did; I had a couple of hours to kill until the connecting train to Lyon departed, so I had a look at the hotel where our honeymoon began in 2008, the cheap-as-chips Ibis next to the airport, bought a terrible sandwich and some Orangina, and hung out under a leaky roof until the train departed.

In Lyon, there wasn’t much to do other than to get to my hotel, the Ibis Styles Croix Rousse, so I did; it was exactly what you would hope for: a small, tidy room with a decent breakfast perched on top of a metro station. A quick walk around after a nap, a baguette and some gloriously stinky Brie, and half-bottle of something or other and I was very happy to be asleep.

Tuesday, July 8: I walked down to town, bought a 48-hour tourist card, checked out the Lumiere museum, and had a very pleasant glass of cider with a lovely Frenchman I’d met at the Bingham Cup in Rome last year. (Get your minds out of the gutter, we’re just friends - sadly, dadbears are not his thing.) Afterwards, some more museums, then early to bed.

Wednesday, July 9: The Euroschirm umbrella I’d ordered a week ago is still nowhere to be seen; it should have been delivered last Saturday, but La Poste keeps saying it’s delayed along with extremely vague messages. Harrumph. Whatever, I was off to the basilica on the other side of the Saone for a rooftop tour (absolutely pants-shittingly terrifying, do NOT recommend) followed by some more amiable wandering around, another museum or two, a cup of tea with a friend from Glasgow on his way home via Lyon, and then a leisurely boat ride. Afterwards, just as I was about to hit the hay, the Frenchman popped up to say he was down at the gay bar with pals drinking beer, so why not join in? I did; picon biére is a wonderful thing. I definitely got the feeling that les French gays were quite a bit different than my tribe, so to speak; it felt like there was a lot of hair dye going on, fear of aging, and also a slight obsession with the gym, not being even slightly chubby, and all of that. In other words, it felt like there were a lot of constraints going on, a lot of societal pressure to fit a more narrowly defined archetype of sorts. It is very, very difficult for me to read all of that, though, as a foreigner and a terrible speaker of French. Mind you, I had no qualms about being the tall, burly, over-bearded American there; it’s nice to be the odd man out sometimes! Afterwards, back to the hotel via a supermarket to buy some supper; they had a bottle of Beaujolais from a town called Pisse, which I greatly regret not having bought (cf. my Instagram post from last year with a bottle of Spanish wine called Pricum). And then a nice sleep.

Thursday, July 10: At long last, la Poste seems to think they might be delivering my umbrella; I walk over to the post office and they say yes, it’s likely, probably this afternoon. Well, yay. So I head over to one last museum - this time it’s a contemporary art space where I jumped around on a trampoline for a while for some reason - and then suddenly the hotel is calling, bonjour Monsieur Pratt, your umbrella is here. Mind you, there are very few trains a day to where I’m going, so it’s all slightly annoying that things are late - it’s after noon, but whatever, the umbrella is finally here, so I go pick it up, wait for a bus to the train station, am accosted by a bunch of local drunks at the bar across the street who are excited to see Père Noël en vacances !! - which was funny as hell, actually - and then it’s another long wait on a hot train platform until the train to Mâcon comes. One change of trains and I’m there; then, a bus to Cluny, which gets into town right as everything closes down for the night, so no chance of seeing the museum or visiting the tourist office to get a credencial, but what are you going to do? Thankfully, my B&B is fantastic; the landlady greets me with a cold beer (Leffe for some reason; I have yet to see an actually-French beer here) and shows me to my comfortable room.

All of the restaurants that looked interesting are closed for summer vacation, so I wind up at a bakery, buy the last ham sandwich of the day, and munch it down on the way back home.

Friday, July 11: It’s time to walk. I have a single 1.5 liter bottle of water, which I reckon is going to be enough for the 23 kilometer walk to Tramayes. I am spectacularly wrong. It is very warm, my pack is way heavier than I would like (the travel agency has sent all of the books and all of the maps for the next 11 weeks to the B&B and they are real fuckin’ heavy indeed), and even though I’m dressed appropriately and have deployed the giant umbrella, I start to run out of water halfway through. It is unpleasant. Thankfully, I see what appears to be a group of students - tweens? teens? hard to tell - who are in a field in the distance with what appears to be a couple of tents. I still have no idea what that was, but I walked over to ask for some water, they were happy to help out, and I chatted a bit with their teachers (?) before continuing along. An incredible stroke of luck, really.

Eventually, I make it to my B&B; there, they demand that I leave my shoes at the door (um, okay) and then repeatedly give me blank stares when I speak French to them (um, okay?). Surprise, they aren’t French, but South African for some reason; they don’t seem to understand how a French B&B is supposed to work, so there’s no apéro before the meal and they charge €4.50 for a small glass of shitty, oxidized red wine, but other than that it’s great; dinner is a huge serving of (frozen?) lasagna that is perfect for a hiking Bear.

Saturday, July 12: Breakfast was crap, so par for the course for this fake-French B&B. Having learned my lesson the day before, I swing by the market in town to buy two huge bottles of water and some snacks. It’s a long day, no surprises; it ends up in a charmless town where I set on a patio outside a bakery that hasn’t emptied their ashtrays since de Gaulle was president and enjoy the 1980s music blasting from some kind of hostel down the block. (Seriously, why 80s music? I don’t get it.) I had intended to wait for the bakery to reopen to get some supplies for tomorrow, but nah, too stinky and loud, so I continue up one last steep hill to a huge chateau in the forest that might be perfect for making an art film called Le massacre à la tronçonneuse en France. Seriously, though, it’s kind of cool; there are some buildings nearby that seem maybe partially renovated, but never completed due to a lack of funds; I ring the doorbell and am greeted by an absolutely lovely Frenchman who invites me inside; suddenly, I feel like I’m in the middle of Un prince, although he’s not gay or anything - it’s just the slightly dilapidated rural vibe of the place. He’s invited a friend along for supper; she’s local, has a huge friendly dog, and her son is working as a patissier in Virginia, so she was hoping for some English conversation before flying to America to visit him next month. I am of course too happy to oblige; dinner is obviously home-cooked from things he’d grown himself and delicious.

Sunday, July 13: As turns out to often be the case, today feels long; there is a lot of elevation gain - well, some elevation gain, at least. Shikoku was largely 20 or 25 km a day, but usually without appreciable elevation gain; this trip is averaging about 22 km a day, but with 500 m elevation gain, so it’s tougher. The temperatures are hovering around 80 degrees; it all feels much more challenging, especially as my pack is so heavy (books, water, and more water). The landscape is beautiful, though.

Eventually, I arrive at tonight’s lodgings, which have the aura of a hippie-run no-kill puppy shelter, which they kind of sort of are, turns out. The two women that run the place are charming; there are lots of cats and dogs as well as a couple of birds. I have a tiny cottage all to myself near a stream; there’s a sudden downpour before dinner, which is again entirely homemade and has a shit ton of courgettes/zucchini (delicious, not enough calories for hikers, though). There are two other hikers at dinner, the first two hikers I’ve seen on the trail at all. They’re from the Savoie; the woman is smart, funny, and speaks fantastic English as she works in IT; her husband is shy, has the quietest voice I’ve ever not quite heard, and is softly handsome in a cubbish way.

Monday, July 14: The friendly ladies drop all of us hikers off at the tiny market in the village, sparing us a 2 km uphill climb to get there - score! I almost buy a shitty gas station sandwich before I’m food-shamed into buying something better by the Frenchwoman (good call), so it’s a baguette, ham, and cheese for me. They seem to disappear before I can say goodbye; we determined at dinner that we aren’t staying in the same place, so it’s the last I’ll see of them.

It’s already fairly warm out even though it’s early, so I steel myself for another long, hot slog of a day. Not for the first time, I’m asked for directions by someone; I just laugh and say yeah no, I’m American, I’m sorry, good luck… Eventually I give up on finding somewhere to sit down on the trail (seriously, the lack of picnic tables, benches etc. has been vexing for days at this point) and plop down on a roadside verge to take a breather. The French hikers arrive, surprised to see me so far ahead; they continue on and I eventually get up and go some more, up the hill and past an old German camp built during World War II. Finally, I see a picnic shelter and woof, her husband has taken his shirt off and… okay, a bit of a letdown, but I’m starting to realize that the French have different ideas of what is appropriate and not in public settings. (Lots of men taking their shirts off!) A quick chat and they’re off; I settle in to eat my grub and enjoy the shade for a while.

It just keeps getting hotter. Along the way, I pass the other hikers again; they’ve stopped at a different picnic area for a rest; I keep on to the next one, which I share with a young woman and her son, who’s happily trying to fly a kite. Flirtatiously (?), she offers me a slice of her melon, which is awfully kind, and I almost accept; eventually, Dad calls, he says hi to the boy, and they drive off, but not without wishing me a warm welcome to the Loire and to France; it is heartfelt and warm and I am most appreciative. Also, she was f’n hot.

Finally, as the day grinds on and my water supplies run low, I arrive in some sun-blasted hamlet with nonfunctional water taps, grrr… it’s only another couple of k to the B&B, but I’m losing patience, so I consult the map and figure out a shorter way to get there, which I do. The hosts are gracious; I make the mistake of putting my backpack on the bed, though, and am asked to put it on the floor, because dirty. Got it, won’t do that again. They offer cold water with homemade lemon syrup to be enjoyed in a shady spot in the back yard along with their cats; it is heaven, especially as they insist on taking my dirty laundry and washing it for me. The other hikers arrive - yes, turns out there are two names of the same place - and once again, we all enjoy dinner together, this time outdoors with fireworks in the distance, because Bastille Day.

Tuesday, July 15: The other hikers are headed back home today via a different route; breakfast is fab, but it’s still stinking hot out, so it’s another long day of uphill climbs in full sun. The umbrella is once again the one thing that makes the day tolerable; it’s a little bit cooler underneath it and I’ve also brought an old Montbell towel along that, when soaked with water, works just fine as a swamp cooler. Along the way, there’s a small shop with some picnic tables, so I buy some not-great cheese, a baguette, and some lemonade; while I’m double-checking my maps, some French bicyclist pulls up, whips his dick out, and starts taking a piss a couple of meters away. Okay, whatever, dude. Stanky!

And then yeah, more up, more down, trees, vistas, all that stuff. It just keeps going and going and okay, it would be nice for this to be over with, but at least tonight’s hotel is at a restaurant which everyone agrees is one of the best in the region. I get a WhatsApp message on the way there; my room is ready, here’s the door code, make yourself at home. Woohoo! I finally arrive there and it’s a fab one-bedroom apartment complete with a small kitchen and a fridge - and my supper is in the fridge. It is tiny. I mean, I love fancy food, but there’s a time and a place for it. It’s cute that you’ve left me a breast of guinea fowl as well as an “inverted Parmesan tarte” but okay, that’s maybe 300 calories total… feh. So I head back out, find a crappy market, and buy two cans: lentils and sausage, and cassoulet - and microwave those back at the room. I also stop by a cheesemonger’s for tomorrow’s lunch - a grand idea - and a wine shop, where I am sold a bottle of wine that is promised to be marsanne and roussanne (it’s not; it’s 33% viognier as well, which I don’t love) and which also turns out to be badly corked, so God damn it, still no amazing wine for me in France this time around. At least the AC is great and the canned lentils and/or beans aren’t too bad.

Wednesday, July 16: I’d asked at the tourist office yesterday if I could get a credencial but that was a nope; also, the local abbey &c. was closed for the day, so I’ve once again kind of flubbed Doing Tourist Stuff here in Charlieu. However, the promised taxi driver has arrived at 09h00 sharp and she efficiently drives me over to Benisson-Dieu, which abruptly, surprisingly pops up at the side of the road. It’s impressive! And then, well, it’s another long, hot day but it’s not bad; I’ve finally figured out how to adjust my pack to hurt less, I’m getting used to the weight, and also I’m now in countryside where there are more people around, so it’s less likely I’ll run out of water.

Tonight’s B&B is in a tiny, ancient town perched on the top of a hill; the proprietor is convivial as heck. He’s worked in agriculture; we have a very French supper together of magret de canard with roast potatoes as well as some excellent local wine which we lament that we humans have fucked the planet and that his grandsons are inheriting an ongoing disaster. I’m sure there’s a suitably Gallic word that describes this feeling, but I don’t know what it is. My room is stuffy and hot; like a fool, I don’t turn on the AC, hoping it will cool down overnight. It does not.

Thursday, July 17: Once again, hot hot hot. It’s a long one. At the end of the day, though, there’s a set of twin villages above the Loire; they are spectacular. At the tourist office, I am asked to pay for a room for the night - whoops, misunderstanding! - but she’s cool, it’s funny. Plenty of tourists in that town, suddenly; I climb a tower and look down over the Loire and it’s spectacular. However, I have misjudged the distance to my lodgings, failed to refill my water bottles in the public toilets there, and start to realize that I have erred. Note to self: don’t do that. The final 2 k are a long, uphill slog in full sun, no trees; when I finally get to the B&B, no one appears to be there and once again I can’t find any taps. Grrr. However, the landlady appears - she was on the phone - and I’m quickly shown to a very comfortable room; minutes later, she pops in with a huge bottle of cold water as well as a bottle of lemon syrup. It is delicous.

I fall asleep before I’m interrupted by their nephew, who’s playing guitar and singing downstairs. It is spectacularly bad; I don’t love the singer-songwriter thing much in the first place and truly wish he’d had a laptop, earphones, and a penchant for space-jazz instead or whatever. But it’s fine, I don’t yell at him, and before long it’s suppertime anyhow, which we enjoy outdoors together. There is some tapenade which she’s made herself, again some excellent local wine (it’s all Gamay noir, as is Beaujolais, but grown on basalt; it is refreshing and rich in a way that’s very satisfying). Once again, zucchini make an appearance; once again, it’s delicious. And then, bedtime.

Friday, July 18: It’s my Mom’s birthday today, so I thankfully remember to call and say hi. Hi Mom! Once again, it’s still incredibly warm, so this day kind of blends into all the previous days. I think I stopped in a town called Bussy to buy some snacks. I definitely refilled my water in Dancé. And then finally had a nice long break in Amions, home to some very fine picnic tables as well as clean toilets. It was a good day. Eventually, I arrived to where I was going, ahead of schedule; the museum was closed and the doorbell wasn’t working at the B&B, but I had planned ahead and gotten a French eSIM in Lyon at the beginning of the trip, so it was no problem (and no cost) to call and ask the landlord to let me in. He did - and he turned out to have a great sense of humor as well, just a really wonderful guy. The room had amazing AC, so I napped a bit before circling back around to the museum/priority for a bit. Dinner was at a restaurant back in town; I sat outdoors, drank half a liter of rosé, and generally had a fine evening. I also learned the hard way that if you want a herbal tea instead of a coffee after dinner, you should ask for un infusion and then specify what kind; I had asked for une verveine and then got a small shot of a cloying green liqueur with an ice cube in it - whoops. Delicious, granted, but too much alcohol for one night…

Saturday, July 19: This was the day that it rained - it started within 2 minutes of leaving breakfast. Thankfully, the umbrella worked great. However, it isn’t quite perfect; it doesn’t really keep your socks wet, alas, and it can be a little bit tricky to use it if it’s low enough to really be effective against rain. There were plenty of electrical storms, especially in the morning; in retrospect, I probably shouldn’t have been hiking, but ehh, we all make mistakes. I did duck into a cowshed at one point to wait out one of the bigger squalls; I also spent time in a couple of churches along the way. Eventually, though, once it more-or-less stopped raining, I took the time to swap out my wet socks for dry ones, which was a relief.

Very much in the mid to late afternoon, I eventually arrived at the Château de la Bastie d'Urfé, but not before making a huge detour around the wrong part of its walls and through a damp, burr-ridden field before running into barbed wire, whoops. There was a restaurant there, however, and I thought it time to settle in to a nice long lunch and rest up after the rain, so I did. Lunch was roast chicken with mushroom gravy and roast potatoes, so incredibly delicious; after the cheese, I was so full that I couldn’t continue, but the friendly waiter insisted I at least have some ice cream, so I did. Urp. And then I managed to get my drink order correct and enjoyed a tisane of verveine afterwards, yay. Leaving my gloves on the table, I scooted off to visit the chateau proper; it was no problem to leave my pack in the ticket booth - seriously, the French are so friendly and helpful, you have no idea - and then have a look around. It started raining a little bit, so I cut things short, went back to retrieve my gloves, and continued on to Montverdun, a town dominated by a priory (?) on top of a hill that you could see for miles around. There was a wedding going on up there; it was kind of funny to pop up into the middle of that as an obviously Not From Around Here, Are You? kind of guy. One older gentleman came over to tell me that he’d walked the Camino as well; other guests just wanted to say hi. Kind of awesome, actually. And then boom, just another mile or so to my hotel, which felt very much like a German youth hostel, albeit with a huge room, no Wi-Fi, and once again excellent AC, thankfully less needed as all the rain had started to cool everything down. I had been thinking I’d ask the innkeepers to not worry about a full dinner, having eaten so late, but there was no one around, just a handwritten chalkboard with my room number on it. Eventually, a staff member appeared, but she insisted I didn’t have dinner with my room… well, until she apparently realized I should have had; she offered to run into town and find me something, but I just said no, don’t worry about, and filched a couple of madeleines from the breakfast room after she left. Problem solved.

Sunday, July 20: Temperatures already climbed back up a bit, so alas, no respite for me today. Breakfast was… nowhere to be found at 07h00 as promised, so I one again absconded with madeleines, but then boom, the same staff member made a (tardy) appearance, so I did get some breakfast after all. I’d already kind of eaten, so I just said, hey, you know what, I’m going to make a sandwich and be on my way, which she was very OK with. Awesome.

It was a short, fast walk that day; however, I didn’t plan well, it being Sunday. I should have gone to the supermarket first thing upon arriving in Montbrison, but I failed; I was hungry, so I went to a North African restaurant instead for some couscous. That was okay; mostly, it was amusing to me because the chef’s kid was asleep on a couch in the dining room the entire time. After lunch, I did manage to check into my room (once again, I had to telephone someone, who read me the door code) - but then it was too late to lay in supplies, so I went to bed hungry, dang it. I almost ordered a pizza from Pizza Cosy, but figured I didn’t really need an entire pizza… The room was cute, but damn, it was an attic room, so insufferably hot, with no AC available. The one big window was in the ceiling; it was still showering sporadically, so I couldn’t open that (and as far as I could tell it was broken anyways). I did not like that place, not at all; worst of all, I woke up to find blood on my pillow; I assume I had gotten up to take a leak in the night, hit my head on the ceiling (easy to do, it was Japanese-short), and gone back to bed without noticing. It took a while to wash all that out before sneaking out after breakfast… which was one of the really good breakfasts, but again just weird because the landlady didn’t show up until well after I’d started making myself some tea. Better late than never though…

Monday, July 21: Montbrison is a fairly large town complete with an actual train station, so there was an Aldi on the trail out of town, yay. It might not be the fanciest market, but it got the job done. Unfortunately, though, they do not have public toilets there and (you knew this was coming, long-term subscribers) my GI tract decided to be mad at me this morning, so it was a frustrating morning, trying to find a public toilet before anything untoward happened. The temperatures were slightly less high today, though, so the walking a little bit easier; just before arriving at a cute old church, there was in fact an old, almost-clean public toilet with a squat-style WC, just in time. Even better, I bought a bar of soap in Lyon, so I was able to was up afterwards. Yay. Just before arriving there, though, I apparently discombobulated two women walking on the trail ahead of my by saying bonjour and then passing them; they seemed distinctly discomfited by that. I suspect they probably didn’t like the idea of running into some random, enormous bear of a man on the trail… ah well. I did try to be as polite as I could, but sometimes that isn’t enough.

Once again, though, it turned out to be that kind of day where you’d just keep running into the same two hikers over and over again. The B&B I was heading for had asked me not to arrive before 17h30, so I was intentionally dawdling; because it was less hot, this was do-able. I spent at least an hour hanging out in a small town with a water tap, toilets, and a shop selling ice cold Orangina; I ran into them at a tiny hilltop chapel, where they seemed annoyed and left almost immediately. Finally, I lapped them again, wound up in yet another tiny town square drinking yet another Orangina, and they appeared once again, being careful to maintain their distance on the other side of the street. Suspecting that they were heading to the same B&B I was - not a lot of options here! - I did say hello as they were leaving and ask if they were, saying that I was as well and that if the landlady asked I would be along in an hour. It was only 1.5 km further along; I left 30 minutes after they did, but we arrived at the same time, further irritating them, I think (why should this asshole be so much faster than us, ugh?). It led to a very uncomfortable vibe for the entire stay; as is the custom in these situations, we were all expected to meet for an aperitif and some light socializing before dinner, but they Just Weren’t Having It, Thanks. As a result, dinner was largely silent; from time to time, they’d whisper with each other at the other end of the table. My French is not good; I think they were largely kvetching about stuff, though, by the tone of it. Fun people!

Tuesday, July 22: Breakfast was as fussy as the dinner the previous evening; the proprietress had taken care to make sure there were separate, appropriate things in place for her two sets of guests. Wine was served in separate carafes of different sizes; so was the orange juice. Once again, I ate in silence; I left quickly as I’d figured out that if I ignored the ‘correct’ way of getting to my B&B tonight, I could ride a tourist train that only ran every few days, so I did that. For the first time, temperatures had cooled down considerably, so I was able to walk quickly and pleasantly. I had found a restaurant next to the train station online; I figured that if I could arrive by 13h00, that would mean I’d have an hour to eat before catching the one train scheduled to run on that day. Along the way, I stopped at a tiny town to have un pick-up (the shopkeeper’s words, not mine), a can of Coke, my first on the trip. And when I arrived at the restaurant, well, they were out of food, sorry. Not cool… and of course as it was lunchtime, the only shop was closed, so no food for me, dang it.

The train ride was charming; it was an old train with a built-in locomotive from the 1950s running on an obscure line, now mostly closed, up to one town past the one I needed to get to. That town, Craponne, was surreal as they were getting ready for their annual country music festival, so they’d installed American flags, guitars, and giant fake cacti everywhere. I finally got something to eat - a good sandwich and a pear clafoutis - and made it back to the station just before the train headed back down the mountain, remembering to get off at the right place, whew.

The B&B there was all kinds of charming; it felt like the French equivalent of going to Columbia, the California state park with an old hotel from the 1800s. I sat in the back garden with the innkeeper, enjoyed a Heineken, and then headed up to my room to have a shower and relax. Dinner was to my mind the best of the trip so far; he’d made a terrine of some kind that was perfectly spiced & then served an enormous plate of pasta accompanied by a beef stew with plenty of carrots. Simple, hiker-friendly food; because I’d already eaten so late in the day, I had to beg off before the cheese and dessert, which he understood but was disappointed by (which I get; it’s awful when you’ve prepared something for a guest that they turn down). So, he proposed that I go for an after-dinner walk instead to help with my digestion, which I gladly did. I slept very, very well.

Wednesday, July 23: I had been warned that today would be a long, exhausting day; it was. At 29 km, it was decidedly the longest; the elevation gain was significant - and worst of all, it was a roller-coaster style trail with endless uphills combined with slippery, steep downhill scrambles. It started raining again, but only slightly - the umbrella mostly worked great, but was not useful in the forested bits; even so, it wasn’t really a problem as the rain was only just enough to make everything slippery, not to drench you, the hiker.

There wasn’t much of anywhere to stop along the way; my lunch was four apricots and an Orangina from a small greengrocer’s. Oh, and some truly abysmal ‘breakfast cookies’ from Aldi (note to self: never again). So yeah, not great. But the walking was generally pretty good, even if it cloudy to the point where you couldn’t see the Mont-Blanc as promised. Regardless, I was in a good mood, mostly; towards the end, as I got out of the rain in an ancient bakery, long abandoned, next to a water tap, I did check Uber to see if that might get me to my B&B quickly. Answer: yes, for only €17.99. Amusing, but no, I decided to keep going instead. I made it to the town at the end of my day; there wasn’t a supermarket handy, alas, but I did find a bakery where I bought a soi-disant “brookie” from an utterly charming mother-daughter team. I then called my B&B in the next town over, they picked up as planned, and I settled in.

One of the funny things about being a tourist is that you almost never get to experience any of the locals’ actual lives. You typically get a customer-service face, but that’s it. However, when you’re staying in small towns in tiny inns, you often get more than that. In this case, when I arrived at the agreed-upon time for supper, it didn’t happen because their daughter was having some kind of crisis, something with a veterinarian, perhaps a dog? Sometimes it’s good that I don’t really understand everything; we agreed to postpone until later. I spent some of my evening listening intently to the landlady talking to me about the situation, not understanding much, but doing my best to appear friendly and understanding; the daughter arrived, crying and reeking of nicotine, but was still scrupulously polite with me, shaking my hand in the middle of everything because that’s what you do with guests. It was remarkable, not the least of which because the couple running the B&B did managed to cook dinner and make me feel at home; there were homemade potato pancakes, some kind of meat with gravy, some really crackerjack blue cheese, and then a friendly goodnight.

Thursday, July 24: That’s today. I didn’t do a God damned thing. The landlady did my laundry; I took a nap, bought a ticket to Florida, and started trying to pin down a trip to Mexico City this December. And that’s enough for one day…

So what’s next? Well, it’s a long way to Santiago de Compostela - too far to make it before I run out of Schengen visa days, so I’m not headed there. As kind of a joke, I’ve been referring to this trip as the Lyon-León trip; although I started walking from Cluny, the first few nights were of course in Lyon. And once I get to León, Spain, I’ll hop on a train to Madrid for two sleeps before heading to London to see my family & then join my husband for the Manchester Leather Weekend before flying back home. That’s a ways off.

I’ll start walking again tomorrow; it’s two days until Le Puy-en-Velay and the start of the Via Podiensis, which is to my mind the ‘real’ start of the Camino. There’s just enough time there to head to Decathlon (think bargain REI, but French) to pick up some hiking gear; Sunday morning, I’ll go to Mass and get my credencial and then start the long walk to Compostela proper. Along the way, I’ll take a break near Bergerac for a couple of days - only 20 more walking days until then! - before continuing on into Spain. Even better, there’s a French company called La Malle Postal that transports hikers’ luggage for them; I used them on the Stevenson trail back in 2021 and let me tell you, it makes a huge difference if you’re walking with a lighter backpack. Given the eventual return of high temperatures, I can’t wait to leave most of my crap in a bag that they’ll transport to my next hotel for me. That’s on offer for the next month; there’s a 10-day stretch where I’ll have to carry everything myself again, but I’ll have ditched most of the books and maps by then, so it’ll be better.

Thank you as always for reading. I don’t expect I’ll be writing any more newsletters, at least not for the Camino… but you never know. Feel free to drop me a line, though, at any time - it can be a little bit lonely when you’re off wandering by yourself! I have a suspicion that might change, though, once I get off of the GR765 (the Cluny-Le Puy Camino trail I’m on right now) and on to the busy, popular part. Then again, who knows, maybe people are sitting it out this summer thanks to the high temperatures? We’ll see!