WHEN WALKING

Home to Santiago Day 4

Saint-Maclou-de-Folleville to La Boucaille: 27km

Last night I had a brainwave, and this morning I am woken up by an alarm on my phone telling me to remove my underwear from the bread oven. Drying laundry while walking leads to many improvisations

Buoyed up by a morning chat with Daniele, I set off. She arrived at half eight. I was never really going to leave by seven as I’d told her the night before. I pack up and leave just as the first guests for her exposition arrive.

I set off back along the Scie to Saint-Victoire-le Abbaye for my pilgrim stamp. When I get there I sit on a bench outside the mairie, which has its window open above me, and I can hear the conversations inside. I try to eavesdrop for evil plotting against the mill.

Noticing a patisserie across the way, I go there for my morning croissant and a stamp before heading off. From here, it’s hedgerowed lanes, ancient manorial barns and chateau-like houses hidden away up long gated drives, which eventually open out into fields and a landscape of stripes and planes.

I stop for an emergency break at the first of a few picnic spots which mark this part of the walk, and I’m surprised by two hellhounds which come running around the corner towards me. No sign of an owner, and clearly making the most of their independence.

They sniff my bag but back off when I say no, then sniff me. I am sure I have picked up all manner of interesting fragrances after three days walking and camping. I enjoy their company while it lasts, but soon transfer their attentions to the nervous looking telephone engineer who pulls up in his van.

The heat of the day is happily coupled with some shady woods. And I arrive in Clères, intrigued due to the number of symbols for visitor sites on Google Maps.

Apparently there’s a huge park here with animals from the old château’s menagerie, and of course the château itself, and the castle that preceded it. I see none of that.

The site I want to see is the opening of the supermarket at three.

I sit in the covered market building outside, and I’m quite happy, rather than seeing the animals in the menagerie, to watch the various crocodiles of children being escorted by their teachers from the zoo to a small park near to where there various coached are parked. I follow them in there, where I spread out my tent on a picnic table to dry out in the sun and the breeze.

Two ladies come and join me at the bench and ask me if the sticks are mine. They’re worried I’ll forget them, and that soon leads to a lovely conversation where they ask me about the practicalities of walking on my own, of camping in storms, and of dealing with the heat. I promise them that if there is a big storm, I will stay in a hotel.

They say a lot of other things, most of which I don’t understand. But I’ve worked out quite a good answer when people are talking and I don’t fully understand, especially if they seem to be slightly exasperated. When looked upon to contribute, I answer with, “Oh, they say something similar back home.” This usually does the trick until the next pause.

So I say this when I think they’re talking about the fact that there aren’t any cafés or boulangeries, charcuteries or épiceries in the village any more. Only later as I walk past a multitude of such shops do I realise what they’re saying is I shouldn’t be going to the supermarket. Nevermind. The sentence still works.

We chat a bit longer. I don’t know if they are unaware of my patchy grasp of what they are saying, or they just don’t care. Eventually, I tell them I need to start the last stretch is to Montville, which the ladies tell me is just down the road. It will take me another three hours.

So I carry once more. The path is through more beautiful woods, but by the end I’m seeking out the houses at the edge of town and starting to make up bad rap in my head about what I’m going to do when I get to Montville.

When I do get to Montville, I’m back in the supermarket again, and am ridiculously happy to see they have boxed salad, but not any old boxed salad. This one has oil and balsamic vinegar in a vial, a complimentary biscuit and an edible spoon. The rapping is still going on in my head. It is becoming the worst wrap ever.

I eat it in the park, watching the families playing the municipal crazy golf. What a place.

For the final leg, I climb up the steep hill to La Boucaille, a hamlet above the town. Benjamin, my host has already told me that he and his family will be away when I arrive, but I’m welcome to stay if I don’t need any facilities.

I pitch my tent behind the children’s play apparatus, facing a bush, with the whole huge garden behind me. I sort out the sleeping arrangements: all clothes on, a buff on my head, two pairs of socks, coat on, travel towel as an extra blanket. Who needs luxury…?