Two Steps Forward

by Graeme Simsion

  The light was almost gone, and for a moment I forgot my fatigue and stood at the gates to admire the château. Small, and faded—but I felt like I had walked back a few centuries.

  There was a shout from the opposite end of the courtyard. Three teenagers were hauling bags out of a minibus. Hadn’t the woman at the tourist office said there would be no one around at this time of year?

  The château door was ajar and I stepped in, closing it behind me as the warmth rushed out. A middle-aged man with wispy fair hair almost bumped into me as he appeared from behind a curtain.

  I managed to communicate that I was after a bed in the dormitory.

  ‘Ce soir, non, le dortoir n’est pas possible,’ he said slowly, shaking his head and pointing to the building where the young people were taking their bags. ‘Mais j’ai une seule chambre.’ One finger raised, then pointed upstairs. ‘Au cause d’une annulation.’ Mimed phone call, then a sharp horizontal movement with the hand, finger and thumb gripped together.

  Dormitory not possible. One room available. An annulation. I’d have to go with the flow on that one.

  I had hoped for something cheaper, but as I soaked in the bathtub after a day of healthy walking in my new gear and with an appetite for the three-course meal that was part of the deal, the scallop-shell charm still around my neck, I felt the universe was taking care of me.

  12

  MARTIN

  As I hitched up the cart again in Tramayes, I heard a cry of Bon Chemin with an Anglo accent, and for a moment thought it might be Zoe, before realising she should be well ahead by now. When I turned I saw a couple. The woman was blonde and in jeans, boots and a long red coat. I waved back.

  I pushed hard for the next three hours, wanting to leave as little distance as possible to do in the dark. The caffeine hit faded and I found myself pulling the GPS out regularly to check my distance.

  I had done a couple of long training runs, out to twenty kilometres, but now I was looking at thirty-seven. The minor roads gave way to a steep muddy track which was mercifully short, but took a bit out of me. Then it was in and out of forests and farmland, over undulating country with occasional sections on the road. It was scenic enough, but I was focused on making time. I skipped the bar in the village of St Jacques des Arrêts, and missed the church and its frescoes, which the guidebook classified as ‘unmissable’.

  The light held until 7 p.m., when I had to strap my torch to my forehead. I proceeded slowly, not wanting to get lost or fall.

  My GPS registered thirty-seven kilometres when I reached the town. A runner knows that the last few hundred metres, with the end in sight, can be the hardest. Then, as I bumped the cart up the steps to the church, I felt it collapse behind me. I unhitched, and turned to see the wheel tilted at an angle well in excess of what the suspension would allow. On Day One the cart had broken. In the final hundred metres.

  I was too exhausted to take it in except as a wave of despair. No point trying to fix it here. I lifted the assembly onto my shoulders, using the straps, though the last thing I needed at the end of a long day was an awkward sixteen kilograms on my back. I hauled myself up the steps and into the street.

  There was a sign—Grosbois. It was not until I was almost upon it that my light illuminated the digit underneath: 2, and an arrow pointing uphill. I put the cart down, did some stretches and drank my remaining water. I reminded myself of the marathon. The ten kilometres I had done with a swollen knee had taken more endurance than would be required here.

  I recalled that the rooms at Grosbois had baths. They also served dinner. I pulled out my phone to let them know I was on my way. No signal. Phone coverage in France is patchy, in part because the locals object to the towers. But there was a text message that must have come through earlier.

  Good luck Dad. Love Sarah.

  My problem was not luck, but judgment. With a modicum of that, I would have been sharing a glass of wine in front of a fire with the bed-and-breakfast owner in Tramayes.

  I held on to thoughts of a hot bath and meal for the last stretch on a narrow, ascending track through pine forest. It was 9.30 p.m. when I arrived, utterly played out, at the château. In the large courtyard, a bus and two cars were parked.

  I dumped the cart, knocked hard at the door of the main building and was eventually greeted by a short man of about forty-five, looking a little flushed with alcohol.

  He frowned, shook his head, and said, ‘Désolé—complet.’

  Full. How the hell could they be full? What about the dorm?

  They had a school group staying. They remembered my booking, yes, but also my annulation—cancellation. And, malheureusement, that room was now occupied. The school had taken the whole dormitory. I could ask to join them, but it was their call.

  I walked to the other building and dragged open the door. A crowd of kids were engaged in some sort of obstacle race.

  I returned to the spot where I had dumped the cart. It was cold, and I suppose I could have walked back and begged a spot on the château floor, but I was beyond conversation.

  As I laid out the tent, I heard footsteps and turned to see, in the light of my torch, someone that it took me a few seconds to recognise as Zoe. She was sporting a white fluffy jacket that might have looked excessive at St Moritz. It was hard to imagine a more inappropriate—no, surreal—look for the Camino. Paired with an antique pendant. Private room with bath, naturally, madame.

  ‘Bonjour,’ she said. ‘Voulez-vous manger?’

  She thrust a brown paper bag at me. I took it and managed a grunted merci before resuming work on the tent. I wasn’t hungry but I would need to eat at some stage. After she left I realised that I’d automatically replied in French, and that she must have assumed I didn’t speak English. It was easier to leave it that way.

  13

  ZOE

  Leaving Grosbois, I found myself in a forest smelling of damp pine needles. Tentacles of white mist wound between the dark avenues of trees, and the stillness was broken only by an occasional water drip or birdcall. It was cold, and there were moments when the wind picked up that reminded me of my childhood in Minnesota, walking to the school bus in cotton socks and an oversized coat handed down from my brothers. But in the ridiculous Aspen number and thermals I felt quite snug. A sign told me I was at 915 metres altitude—three thousand feet. The hunter—who was apparently also a pilgrim—must be crazier than me to use a tent in this weather. Maybe he was doing some kind of penance. For shoplifting.

  I walked for four hours alone in the mist, following the scallop shells, beginning to wonder if I would ever find a town. I tried recalling some of the inspirational quotes that were put up on the board each week at yoga and settled for Ralph Waldo Emerson: Nature always wears the colours of the spirit. It won just ahead of Alice being told it didn’t matter which fork she took if she didn’t know where she was going.

  Just when the isolation was threatening to overwhelm me, I heard a voice. A soprano was singing an aria from Carmen—I couldn’t remember its name. In the silence of the forest, it was unearthly, mystical. After maybe a minute, the singer emerged from the fog, a girl too slim for her voice, walking two huge mastiffs.

  The dogs saw me first and strained at their leads. She stopped singing and motioned me not to touch. Like I was going to. I stood still and smiled as she continued on, resuming the aria a few moments later. Only when I could no longer hear her did I drink a little of the coffee that Monsieur Annihilation had poured into my thermos and begin walking again.

  The fog lifted, and the beauty of my surroundings helped me realise how blessed I was, despite everything: the trail itself, its surface a soft mat of red-brown; the occasional ray of sun filtering through the trees to fall on frozen pine needles, drips forming on the ends; glimpses of rolling hills where forests were interspersed with distant houses and small villages.

  I stopped at Propières. There seemed to be only one place to stay in town—a small hotel. I was not hurting, just tired, though I was
not walking anything like four miles an hour. Nevertheless, I had an acute sense of relief when I put the pack down in the bar—a sports bar filled with men. One by one they stopped their conversation until they were all staring at me. The hostility was unmistakable. Two big guys rose from their stools. Right.

  I crossed my arms and stared back, trying to look more confident than I felt.

  ‘Je suis…looking for une chambre.’ My French was slowly coming back.

  ‘Americaine?’ said one.

  ‘Oui.’

  Suddenly they were smiling, but not just at my accent. Their body language and head shakes were unmistakable: she doesn’t get it. Meaning: she thinks it’s okay for a woman to walk into a sports bar.

  Screw them. France was a western country. Their culture didn’t deserve special treatment.

  I did my best not to be intimidated. I told them that in the US a woman could walk into a bar without having to deal with misogyny and that if their behaviour was representative of their country, then France had some catching up to do. Or at least I did to the extent that my French allowed.

  ‘America bon,’ I said and stuck both thumbs up. ‘France non bon.’ Thumbs down.

  They responded by bursting out laughing.

  ‘USA is shit,’ said one, in English, and the others made it clear they agreed. Not just shit, but a laughing-stock.

  Before I had a chance to channel my inner patriot, a woman appeared from the hallway and grabbed me and my pack. She pointed to the picture of the footballers. Not sexism, just team affiliation. I must have been the equivalent of a Yankees fan walking into a Mets bar. I guessed the ‘shit’ comment was referring to our soccer team. I could cope with that. I made a mental note to find out what team my backpack was supporting. And to keep working on my French so I wouldn’t sound so damn stupid.

  The hotel did a pilgrim meal, but the cost of my room and dinner was sixty euros, even after a discount because I didn’t want the canard, just the vegetables. The soup was great, but since when was pasta a vegetable? I made up with cheese. How long would a vegan survive here?

  The next day it rained. When I felt the first drops, I found shelter in a small chapel. Within a few minutes it was bucketing down, and about half an hour later the shoplifter came past, pulling a cart. My surprise at seeing him pressing on in the rain was overtaken by the realisation that I’d seen him and his cart the day I arrived in Cluny. I called bonjour but he just pushed on. Bringing him something to eat in Grosbois didn’t seem to have changed his attitude to me. A seriously weird guy.

  I couldn’t find a hostel in Le Cergne, just a hotel with an upscale restaurant. I checked in and went in search of cheaper food. I was craving something hot. A lot of something hot. I couldn’t remember being this hungry.

  There was a pizzeria. As soon as I smelled the aroma, thoughts of every unhealthy topping imaginable flooded my mind. Particularly salami. I prided myself on being in tune with my body, and right now my body was asking for pizza with cheese, salami, bacon and all. I steeled myself to choose a vegetarian option. Our ancestors did a lot of labour but only the wealthy could eat meat.

  ‘Un grand’—I said, using my hands to show that I meant big—‘vegetarian.’

  The owner shook his head and pointed to a mid-sized pizza plate.

  I shook my head back. ‘Maximum.’

  He looked surprised, but not as much as when I finished it and ordered another—this time just a medium. I’d learned that the TTC on restaurant checks meant that the tip was included, but I left behind a sketch of him sagging under the weight of a pizza he was delivering. He was pinning it on the wall, laughing, when I left. At least some people appreciated my efforts at creating good karma.

  By lunchtime the next day I’d made Charlieu, the biggest town since Cluny, and found the tourist office.

  ‘I’m doing the Camino.’

  ‘Credencial?’ asked the woman at the desk.

  All right. They were serious about the rules if they would only service pilgrims. I pulled out my ‘passport’. Instead of checking it, she stamped it with an impressive picture of the abbey and handed it back.

  ‘Can you give me a list of places to stay?’

  ‘You will find these in the guidebook.’

  ‘Do you have one?’

  ‘They come out in February.’

  ‘I need somewhere cheap.’

  ‘The hostels, they are mostly closed. It is not the season. A chambre d’hôte?’ In response to my blank look, she added, ‘Rooms in the house of someone. Bed and breakfast. Sometimes also dinner. For these accommodations, you make a phone call.’

  Not with my level of French, you didn’t.

  She called for me. No answer at the hostel. But there was a chambre d’hôte.

  And, when I found it after another two hours walking, it was wonderful. The bed was soft, there was a bathroom with an array of cosmetics and my host, a retired teacher, shared a vegetarian meal with me and spoke enough English for simple conversation. Then she gave me the bill. Fifty-five euros. Fair for what I’d got, but more than I could afford.

  I could keep the cost of lunch to five euros a day. Bread was cheap. But every night apart from Richard and Nicole’s—and the church in Sainte Cécile—had cost way more than my budget of fifteen euros. Either I would have to return to Camille’s or find an English-speaking pilgrim who knew the ropes.

  14

  MARTIN

  The night in Grosbois, I slept in my clothes. I woke, cold and ravenous, at 2 a.m. and opened Zoe’s food package: bread, cheese and terrine. I wolfed it down, put on my fleece and was out to it until I heard the school bus driving away and then the voice of the man who had refused me accommodation the previous evening.

  I poked my head out into a foggy morning, and he was full of apologies. Of course I should not have pitched a tent. Minus two degrees last night. Come in whenever you’re ready.

  I was stiff but not sore. I helped myself to a late breakfast—coffee, toast, jam and an omelette on the warmer. Monsieur joined me, and offered me the use of a room to shower and clean up. I wasn’t going to say no.

  The room had not been cleaned and the big unmade bed reminded me of what I had missed out on. On the desk was a sketch of the château. It was a well-executed drawing that flattered the old building. In the foreground was a caricature of my host which would have detracted if it had not been so good—the artist had captured not only his appearance but something of his essence.

  I did a few minutes of stretches, then took a long shower. Another of Monsieur Chevalier’s prophecies had come to pass: I had a blister on the big toe of my left foot. I guided a needle and thread through it, leaving the thread in place as recommended, then washed my socks and pinned them to the back of my bag to dry.

  I could not delay examining the cart any longer. To my relief, the problem was the nut I had been experimenting with. It took only a few minutes to put the wheel back in place and tighten it with the ring spanner in my toolkit. Despite my fingers numbing in the cold, I enjoyed the work.

  I took stock. I was coping. The first day was not representative; it was a double stretch. Today would be easier.

  The proprietor, still apologetic for letting me sleep in the tent, packed me a sandwich, filled my thermos and added his stamp to my credencial. It was harder earned than any I had received at school.

  I made a careful start towards Les Écharmeaux, a sensible twenty-four kilometres. My breath merged with the fog and, after a kilometre or so of following the scallop-shell signs, the stiffness in my legs dissipated.

  The track led into pine forest, and a silence deep but not oppressive. I felt, once again, liberated, just me and my cart, the feeling enhanced by having demonstrated that I was not reliant on others for accommodation and had been equal to my first mechanical problem.

  The cart rolled along behind without any issues, but there were some long ascents. I took them at the slow pace required to keep my breathing steady. As I reached the top of
a long stretch, with a sign telling me I was at 915 metres, I stopped and checked my heart rate. One hundred and thirty-four. Bang in the middle of the cardiac-training zone. If I made Santiago, I would be fit.

  In my preparations, I had not contemplated what it would be like to walk alone for most of the day, doing nothing else for three months of my life. I’d planned it as a business enterprise, but also realised that it would be an opportunity for reflection.

  Now, I began to get a sense of what it was going to be like. The surprise was that I was not bored. More to the point, I was not going to be able to retreat into contemplation and let the miles roll by. The first time I indulged in a daydream, I was bumped back to reality by a realisation that the scallop-shell signposts had vanished. I retraced my steps, and, after ten minutes, felt the edge of panic. I pushed it back, but it was another five minutes before I found the fork where I had taken the incorrect path. It was a wake-up call. Walking required constant attention to the environment—not my greatest strength.

  My unintentional detour taught me something. The scallop shells were fine until you missed one. Once off the track, it was harder to find the way back. Even if I succeeded in retracing my steps, I could still have a problem. The shells were placed to be visible walking towards Santiago. If I hit the track walking in the other direction, I might not realise I was on it.

  I reached Les Écharmeaux as the sun was setting and checked into the hotel, where I logged onto the internet, loaded my maps, washed my clothes and hung them to dry on the heaters. In the hotel dining room, I ate an excellent meal of boeuf bourguignon, cheese, nougat glacé and a quarter-litre of Beaujolais—alone, surrounded by empty tables with the chairs stacked on top.

  My third day, into Le Cergne, continued what I hoped would be the template for the rest of the journey. I packed lunch, walked steadily, if slowly, on the hills and took a break every five kilometres. The GPS was working well; I had it in and out of my pocket every few hundred metres, watching it track my path, checking the distance to the next waypoint and the day’s destination, monitoring my moving-average speed—a respectable 4.1 kilometres per hour—and my overall average, which was a lazier 3.6 kilometres per hour.