We were in a different place. Even crossing the dam wall out of Capanne di Marcarolo there was a sense of remoteness: nobody about. Then, narrow tracks, panoramic vistas that came and went as the track wound its way through the hills, and, for the second day, fog. At the top of a hill we found a memorial to a World War II battle, its positioning a contrast to the prominent monuments to les morts in the centre of every French village.
A little way past the peak, sheltered from the wind, I stopped and reached for Zoe’s hand. We stood in silence for a minute or two, just listening, taking in the forest.
Having set out from our little hut in the wilderness, I felt that bit more removed from the towns and villages, and was appreciating the break from the heat. Sarah was doing better, I was enjoying being with Zoe more than ever and we seemed to be progressing toward a future arrangement. Which left Gilbert and Camille.
The blame for Camille’s sudden determination to become a cleaner, bed-maker and slave to the whims of impecunious travellers lay not with God, but with us and our talk of perfect hostels, into which she’d inserted herself first as cook, and now apparently as proprietor and chaplain. Plus my spiel on goals and the Zoe’s meditation sessions that had put her in touch with God again.
‘How serious do you think she is?’ I asked Zoe, suspecting I knew the answer. Camille had started the Chemin apparently on a whim. Zoe had thought she’d last three days, but here we were, seven weeks later, feet pointed to Rome.
‘I’m half-jealous. I sort of indulge myself daydreaming about it on the trail, and when we stay somewhere that feels like it needs a little love, I think: I could really fix this place up. I did that a lot on the first camino, when there were more real hostels.’
‘I think everybody does. When I’m doing a repair, and I can see that it’s been neglected…same thing.’
‘But, seriously,’ said Zoe, ‘when Camille came out with it, it was probably the first time I’d thought about the practicalities—and not just the problems with her health.’
‘Come on. You led the cheer squad last night.’
‘I felt I had to be positive. But Bernhard’s right. It doesn’t make sense financially.’
‘He said that?’
‘Sure. You’ve heard him. Not enough pilgrims; you need a big place, which is going to cost a heap to buy and maintain…’
I made the obvious refutation. ‘People do it. And if you want more creative solutions, you could sublet accommodation by the night to get started, which is what I think the guy in Campo Ligure was doing. Or you might lease something long-term, like that old chateau…’
‘I get it,’ said Zoe. ‘But subletting accommodation by the night…I don’t think that’s where Camille’s at.’
‘More about pilgrims around a long table, talking about life.’
‘Like she’s never done with us.’
‘Bit unfair. She knows we’re a bunch of heathens—in your case, something worse.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ said Zoe.
‘You’re anti-religion. The rest of us are happy to ignore it or take the bits that resonate.’
‘Seriously, I got over that last time. You’ve seen me in the churches, lighting candles. I’m okay with the history and the spirituality. As long as I don’t have to deal with the establishment…’
‘The point I’m making is that she’s been reasonably private about her faith, and I don’t think anyone’s complaining.’
‘I get it,’ said Zoe. ‘Anyway, there’s a bigger problem.’
‘Gilbert.’
As Zoe had raised her glass to Camille’s success, I’d looked at our usual proposer of toasts, who patently hadn’t been consulted. The ever-doting husband, for whom nothing was too much in the service of his life partner, was wearing an expression that said: ‘This might be a bridge too far.’
‘I’m sort of surprised,’ said Zoe. ‘I mean, once you get past the idea of how…unexpected…it is, like you said, people do it. She can cook; she’s run a household; she speaks languages. Gilbert’s owned a business; he’s used to customer service and money and regulations. It wouldn’t have to be in Italy—it could be in France…It’s not as crazy as it sounds.’
‘Until you take Gilbert out of the equation. Then you’ve got a single woman with unpredictable physical-health problems and cognition issues. Sarah tells me she might not be able to live alone, even now, because she could leave the gas on or take an accidental overdose.’ I thought back to the trip Gilbert and I had taken to retrieve the pills he’d forgotten. ‘I think he’s already hiding a lot of that stuff from us.’
While we were pondering how they’d spend the rest of their lives, Gilbert and Camille caught up.
‘Is there a problem?’ asked Gilbert.
‘No,’ I said, backtracking to before we were talking about the problem. ‘Just taking a little break to appreciate where we are. Sometimes we’re so busy with our navigation or how far to the next stop or thinking about what we’re going to do for dinner that we forget to—as we say in England—smell the roses.’
‘Not just sometimes,’ said Camille. ‘Most of the time. You are a wise man.’
‘Well, it might seem obvious, but the first time I walked, I was focused on getting to the end, or at least to each day’s destination, and worrying about what I’d do when the Camino was over. I can thank Zoe for opening my eyes.’
Zoe squeezed my hand and I made a point of smelling the metaphorical roses. Then I let her walk off with Camille while I prepared to persuade a man to change his life because his wife had got a message from God.