"The mirrors of Compostela" Heat wave and little things

Story "The mirrors of Compostela" - Heat wave and little things - Back cover: Summer woke me up. It's only 6:40 AM and I'm already sweating. In the newspaper I flip through for breakfast, the weather map is illustrated by naive suns sweating profusely. 43 ° are announced ... and they seem to find it funny: 43 °! In the shade and without moving, it is torture. For a walker, this is torture. Tomorrow it's decided, I get up before daybreak. […] I'm slowing down. Everything slows down. Everything falters: my pace, the thread of my thoughts, the intensity of my emotions. It’s untenable, so much heat. In Marcilhac-sur-Célé, I stop. It is 11:20. I moved forward fifteen kilometers. Then there you go. Do nothing more today. Wait. Wait for the storm. The North wind. The night ?… Or get used to it. Extract : Most walkers choose Conques as their final goal, because Le Puy - Conques, everyone says it here, is the most beautiful. "I will continue next year, every year a little bit," is what I have heard many times. Others dream: "One day I will do the whole way. But when I retire. This is the kind of talk that is beyond me. If you really want something, you have to achieve it right away, not in fifteen years, otherwise you frown, you suffocate, you get bitter. When I hear "I will do this in retirement", I am dismayed. And there are those who struggle, like this bald old bearded man I hang around for a few minutes. He is going to Compostela for the fifth time and talks to whoever wants to hear about his many pilgrimages. He does not care about his interlocutor, he talks. He knows everything about the route: its route, its variants, its history, its frequentation, its inns, its landscapes, its drop and the rest of the route of course: “We are approaching Decazeville,” he said in his stony voice. It is a former mining town. There is nothing to see. The path goes there, but you must not go there, eh! There is a crow's feet further. You will have to take a right at this point. It’s not easy to spot, I remember, it was before the descent. Don't miss it, eh. This is a shortcut to go directly to Livinhac. Really, Decazeville is not worth it, eh! Do not go to Decazeville. It doesn't matter, Decazeville. " It's ok I got it. I leave it to his soliloquy. Anyway, he has already taken other pilgrims to tell them the same story. I reach for the crow's feet and go straight ahead. It’s not some old bearded man who is going to tell me where to go! I see that Decazeville, with its For Sale and For Rent signs, its badly blocked roads, its wandering alcoholics and its gray houses, it's sad, it's very sad. But now, that's part of the way. On the other side of the hill: Livinhac-le-Haut. Neither ugly nor ugly. But since it is 24 kilometers after Conques, an ideal distance for a day's walk, pilgrims meet there. The reception is cheerful at the reception of the communal gîte. Children heckle behind the counter while their mother stamps the credentials. The uncle and the cousins arrive laughing. Here, welcoming pilgrims is a bit of a party. At the bar, the owner and her husband, as well as the regulars, are all in a good mood as well. I'm off to dinner with Bobby, a junkie who's moved into the same dorm as me. At the restaurant, the neighbor at the table listens to us and laughs in communicative jerks at each of her stories. Her name is Sophie, she's a cape of my age, her hair tied in a ponytail with fluttering brown locks, a shy look that is her charm and an incomparable laugh of generosity. We move our tables closer together, the restaurant owner appreciates it and, kind-heartedly, serves us a double portion of duck, and offers the digestive again to prevent us from leaving again in the storm. Outside under the awning, wet cats purr at our feet and bats tumble down from the frame before giving us an aerial ballet. It's a summer evening as we like it, in Livinhac too. Made in France Author: François Koch Illustration: Jack Koch The mirrors of Compostela - Heatwave and little things - Back cover: Summer woke me up. It's only 6:40 AM and I'm already sweating. In the newspaper I flip through for breakfast, the weather map is illustrated by naive suns sweating profusely. 43 ° are announced ... and they seem to find it funny: 43 °! In the shade and without moving, it is torture. For a walker, this is torture. Tomorrow it's decided, I get up before daybreak. […] I'm slowing down. Everything slows down. Everything falters: my pace, the thread of my thoughts, the intensity of my emotions. It’s untenable, so much heat. In Marcilhac-sur-Célé, I stop. It is 11:20. I moved forward fifteen kilometers. Then there you go. Do nothing more today. Wait. Wait for the storm. The North wind. At night? ... Or get used to it. Extract: Most walkers choose Conques as their final goal, because Le Puy - Conques, everyone says it here, is the most beautiful. "I will continue next year, every year a little bit," is what I have heard many times. Others dream: "One day I will do the whole way. But when I retire. This is the kind of talk that is beyond me. If you really want something, you have to achieve it right away, not in fifteen years, otherwise you frown, you suffocate, you get bitter. When I hear "I will do this in retirement", I am dismayed. And there are those who struggle, like this bald old bearded man I hang around for a few minutes. He is going to Compostela for the fifth time and talks to whoever wants to hear about his many pilgrimages. He does not care about his interlocutor, he talks. He knows everything about the route: its route, its variants, its history, its frequentation, its inns, its landscapes, its drop and the rest of the route of course: “We are approaching Decazeville,” he said in his stony voice. It is a former mining town. There is nothing to see. The path goes there, but you must not go there, eh! There is a crow's feet further. You will have to take a right at this point. It’s not easy to spot, I remember, it was before the descent. Don't miss it, eh. This is a shortcut to go directly to Livinhac. Really, Decazeville is not worth it, eh! Do not go to Decazeville. It doesn't matter, Decazeville. " It's ok I got it. I leave it to his soliloquy. Anyway, he has already taken other pilgrims to tell them the same story. I reach for the crow's feet and go straight ahead. It’s not some old bearded man who is going to tell me where to go! I see that Decazeville, with its For Sale and For Rent signs, its badly blocked roads, its wandering alcoholics and its gray houses, it's sad, it's very sad. But now, that's part of the way. On the other side of the hill: Livinhac-le-Haut. Neither ugly nor ugly. But since it is 24 kilometers after Conques, an ideal distance for a day's walk, pilgrims meet there. The reception is cheerful at the reception of the communal gîte. Children heckle behind the counter while their mother stamps the credentials. The uncle and the cousins arrive laughing. Here, welcoming pilgrims is a bit of a party. At the bar, the owner and her husband, as well as the regulars, are all in a good mood as well. I'm off to dinner with Bobby, a junkie who's moved into the same dorm as me. At the restaurant, the neighbor at the table listens to us and laughs in communicative jerks at each of her stories. Her name is Sophie, she's a cape of my age, her hair tied in a ponytail with fluttering brown locks, a shy look that is her charm and an incomparable laugh of generosity. We move our tables closer together, the restaurant owner appreciates it and, kind-heartedly, serves us a double portion of duck, and offers the digestive again to prevent us from leaving again in the storm. Outside under the awning, wet cats purr at our feet and bats tumble down from the frame before giving us an aerial ballet. It's a summer evening as we like it, in Livinhac too.