12

MARTIN

Gilbert and I had been obliged to make a choice. We were looking at thirty-two kilometres to Pérouges, the next stop on the Association Chemins d’Assise itinerary. There was only one possible break—Saint André de Corcy, nine kilometres down the road. We’d lose a day and still have twenty-three kilometres the next.

We had all pulled up reasonably well, bar the cuts and scratches from Bernhard’s idiotic short cut. Bernhard, Zoe and I had walked longer distances before, and Sarah the marathon girl would not have a problem.

After consideration, Gilbert had been up for it. ‘Camille will be pleased with the achievement.’

‘Okay, but we start at dawn.’

‘Camille will not be pleased with that.’

‘She’ll be a sight less pleased if she has to walk in the heat.’

A long day’s walk is a bit like a marriage, or at least my marriage to Julia. You start off full of energy, settle into a routine which passes quickly if you’re enjoying the journey, then the last bit is nothing but hard slog and looking forward to it being over. That said, there are a few tricks that can make it more pleasant.

When the team arrived in the kitchen at 6.30 a.m. I had coffee brewing.

‘Breakfast?’ said Sarah.

‘Let’s knock over five kilometres first.’

•

Watching the sun rise is a pleasure that could begin every day, if only we pulled ourselves out of bed. Perhaps it would pall, but today, walking fresh after a strong coffee, I could sense that everyone was lifted by it. The track was easy, and we proceeded through deep-green woodlands, the grass dried only at the perimeter, for a little over an hour in our usual pairs, until Bernhard stopped, dumped his pack and plonked himself on a log.

‘Five kilometres. Breakfast.’

I’d planned to sneak in an extra kilometre, but it was a pleasant spot. I pulled out six peaches and a small bag, which I passed to Sarah.

She smiled, perhaps despite herself. ‘Muesli. Where did you get this?’

‘There was a giant jar.’

‘You should have pinched more.’

‘That would have been very un-pilgrim-like.’ I reached into my pack and pulled out a larger bag. ‘I left five euros. But you can carry it.’

‘Too early for croissants,’ said Camille. This was the problem with starting before the proprietor could do the boulangerie run.

‘Four kilometres to the bakery and they’ll be fresh out of the oven.’

My bag of motivational tricks got us a fair way, though Camille pointed out the option of accommodation in Saint André as we munched our croissants and warm pain aux raisins. But as the sun hit its high point, we were one with the wilting sunflowers. Even Bernhard and Sarah looked grateful when I called breaks every two kilometres.

And there was the inevitable stop for Camille to light a candle. Zoe was now accompanying her: ‘Connecting with Camille at a more spiritual level.’

On long days, you feel your body closing down in anticipation of the end. It had gone 3.00 p.m. when we reached the outskirts of Pérouges, and Bernhard announced that both the thirty-kilometre and thirty-degree marks had been broached.

Sarah had the GPS set to our accommodation, but the route took us through the middle of the medieval village, full of tourists and souvenir shops.

‘Just over a mile to go,’ she said.

Gilbert pointed to a vacant table at one of the busy bars and without waiting for a response flopped into it. Six beers.

‘It’s gorgeous,’ said Zoe. It was. A well-preserved walled town on a hill—a hill that we were too familiar with.

Camille was on her phone. Taxi? We’d made the village centre, so she could argue that she wasn’t cheating.

The grins on Sarah’s and Bernhard’s faces when the beers arrived suggested that Gilbert had made a good call. Camille’s call wasn’t so good. I’d barely finished my half-pint when a solid middle-aged woman appeared and surveyed our table.

‘These four,’ said Camille in French. And then, to us, ‘I have arranged a tour of the town. The history is very interesting. Gilbert and I are familiar with it, so we will meet you at the accommodation.’

Gilbert raised his hand. Two more beers.

Pérouges is not large, but it is cobblestoned, steep and full of history. Our guide spoke rapid French and left no ancient stone unturned.

Zoe, in halting French, did her best to bribe her to finish early, but she wasn’t having any of it. Two bloody hours, then the walk back. Thirty-two kilometres plus surely another three around the village.

The hotel was in the suburb of Meximieux, but pleasant enough. Gilbert had left a message at the desk to meet at reception at seven-thirty.

I was lying on the bed naked when Zoe emerged from the shower.

‘Don’t even think about it,’ she said.

For once, I didn’t.

Gilbert and Camille were all smiles.

‘Great achievement,’ said Gilbert. ‘We have recovered well.’

‘The tour was interesting?’ said Camille. Was she taking the piss?

Gilbert pointed to the door. ‘The restaurant is back past the village. Only three kilometres.’ Zoe gasped and he broke into a smile. Definitely taking the piss.

The restaurant was next door, a wood-fired grill and just brilliant, as simple food and drink are after you’ve recovered from hard exercise.

‘One week completed,’ said Bernhard. ‘Repeat ten times and we are in Rome.’ For Sarah and me, it marked a third of the way.

‘Wait,’ said Camille. ‘I have something to say. I was misinformed. I did not expect to be climbing over rocks. I did not expect to have to pee in the woods. I did not expect to walk thirty-three kilometres.’

‘I hear you,’ said Zoe. ‘As Gilbert says, a week is a great accomplishment. We’ve walked maybe a hundred miles…’

‘One hundred and thirty-two kilometres,’ said Bernhard. ‘Eighty-three miles.’

‘Most people never do a walk like that in their lives,’ said Zoe. ‘So, if you’re saying, let’s stop here…’

Camille gave a look of mock-horror. ‘Of course not. I am walking to Rome. Maybe I will organise another tour for you in the next village.’ She looked around for reactions. ‘Or maybe we will not do any more days of thirty kilometres.’