Day 18: Montcuq and Lauzerte

Pic 1: Montcuq with the medieval tower overlooking the village

Being by myself has forced me to try more Français. There are a few that speak English, like the old man from Holland that I passed on the way to Montcuq. The man must have been close to eighty and he must get started very early because I caught up with him one hour down the Chemin at 7:15 and he was a pretty slow walker which means he must have departed from his Gite no later than 6am. Anyway, it was obvious that he’s not too happy being alone. He started talking to me when I was still behind him and then sped up to keep the conversation going once I’d passed him. Feeling a bit guilty, I slowed my pace and walked alongside him to listen and to answer his questions. Soon he started telling a story that he’d heard, about a woman getting lost from the Appalachian trail while going to the bathroom. One year later when they found her body it turns out that she hadn’t wandered too far from the path. He then followed this by telling me that he never wanders very far from the Chemin and that his wife requires a daily phone call or text just to hear that he’s safe. Frankly, I doubt that a person could get lost in France, least of all in the wilderness. Nevertheless, there’s nothing like a good story to cheer the heart.  

Pic 2: charcuterie at the market

Pic 3: Fromagerie at the market

Pic 4: Olives and tapenade and sundried tomatoes and pesto etc…

1. Sunday in Montcuq is market day, so after walking the two hours to town, I stopped to have a cup of coffee and pick up some lunch. I bought a baguette, a slice of cheese, a few slices of ham, and a flat of strawberries. Because I couldn’t get the berries in my backpack, i just held them until I could find a shaded area for lunch. At first it seemed like a great idea, but as I walked I kept catching the scent of fresh strawberries from the mouth of the bag. Needless to say, I didn’t get too far before I was eating and walking. The strawberries were delicious but soon my fingers were bright red with juice and I was without a place to wash or wipe them. To make matters worse, I soon came upon a table alongside the road holding fresh peaches and cherries and a piggy bank. Well, me being me, I couldn’t miss an opportunity like this, so I dropped a few euro in the bank and took two peaches and a bag of cherries. I knew right away from the feel of the peaches that they couldn’t take to being carried for long. So I wasted no time biting into one and was instantly covered in peach juice. Thankfully I’ve stopped shaving since beginning the pilgrimage, so the juice didn’t get too far past my hairy face. Now I have sticky red fingers and peach juice all over my face and no place to clean up. So like any smart man would do, I bit into the second peach and experienced more of the same until I was good and covered in fruit juices. So, now I have my poles in one hand, a bag of cherries in the other, my face and beard covered in peach stuff, and  strawberry-red hands when a group of French tourists show up on the trail wanting to talk. So I don’t know if it was my poor French or something else, but the group quickly lost interest in me, especially after I told them that I was from England.