Day 6 - First day walking the camino

6am wake to a CD of monks singing. Every one is already up and about. God botherers and 50 plusers love this early morning shit. I resist the urge to throw my boot at the speaker. Every one keeps on saying 'god bless you' to me, which makes me heaps awkward. Only because I don't know what to say back. I don't, maybe, kind of, don't, do, sort of believe in a higher power so I'd feel fake saying it back. 'Err, thanks' is my standard response.

Decided before I went to sleep the night before that the ache in my back meant that the bag is to heavy. What can I leave here? After a discussion with Ignus, I leave my heavy jacket, gas burner and pot n pan. I end up really wanting them but that cuts 5kg off the weight (total 19kg) and saves my back.
I want to walk by myself so I wait for the other to clear off before I do. Leave the albergue and take the wrong direction and instantly get lost. Then it starts raining heavily. Good start.

Luckily my sense of direction kicks in (normally a requires a 2 cigarette warming up period). I land back on the trail and abracadabra there’s the group. I notice every one else is much more prepared than I with water proof hiking gear, walking stick and bags that look like if they became self aware, would start hunting down John Connor. But my shorts(didn't pack anything else),emergency poncho and flano (flannel shirt for you non aussie heathens) are doing a good enough job and give me extra pilgrim points for suffering. High horse rise’s by 2 points. Well if this group isn't going to stay in front of me ill have to pass them.

First of many small chapels I passed

The way leaves the town and turns into a muddy forest trail. Then it gets steep and goes up. And up. And up. 2 hours in and I’m soaked, my extremities are starting to get cold, the bags killing my back and my tar filled asthmatic lungs are struggling. What the fuck have I got myself into? I thought Spain was sunny? It was nice in France, I could just go back and spend a few weeks beach hopping!

But as I just manage to get to the top of the rise I’m rewarded with an amazing view of village we’d just left. The quicker in the group catch up to me, they don’t speak english but moments like these don’t need words. Their sweaty pained expressions change into surprised smiles as they take in the view.

I walk with these 3 for a few up hill hours. The rain doesn’t let up. Rolling smokes in the rain whilst walking is hard, and most times I end up just trying to light a crumpled, soaked piece of tobacco and paper. Finally we start to go down, we hit the picturesque village of Pasaia. It is like travelling back in time, the small cobbled streets are filled with small stone houses and smoke filled café’s with cured meats hanging from the roofs.

The path divides, to the right follows the hilly coast, the left follows roads. First day is no time to start getting lazy so right it is. Every one but a middle aged spanish lady takes the easy path. She’s heaps fitter than me and I soon loose sight of her. Embarrassing, ego minus 3 points. More hills, more rain. The top of this hill is covered and thick fog, medieval ruined towers keep on appearing from no where.  Brilliant atmosphere! I get into a rhythm and let my mind wander, but have to get the bag off my back every now and again when it aches to much.

3pm soaked and tired I’m doubting I’ll ever make it to Santiago. But as I descend another hill the city and beach of St. Sebastian appear and the clouds part and the sun shines with full force.  I stumble to the beach. I was going to test myself on the first day, but life’s for enjoying, right? I spend the afternoon sun bathing and body surfing. The water is amazing. Immense love life moment.

As it gets dark, I head off looking for a place for my tent but my legs and back lock up. So I sit on the promenade writing my journal and people watching. I meet two Swiss guys who are here to party for a day or two. We chat for a bit and they give me there details and tell me I’ve got a bed in Switzerland if I ever need it.

Set my tent up and open a can of food that Baloo gave me. It tastes horrible, like shredded cabbage with fish. I hope I can I eat this stuff cold.

24km's...831 to go

Day 7
It wasn't meant to be eaten cold, definitely not meant to be eaten cold…

Day 5

Travel tip 1: Toilet paper! The most important thing to have in your bag unless you want to spend the rest of the day wearing only one sock.

5 am Santi and I have a quick coffee and by quarter to six he’s dropping me off a few kilometres out of Irun. Here I am. Now what? Where do I start from? Where do I get a pilgrims passport? Is there an actual ‘way’ or do I just start heading West?  Ok, first stop tourism office to find these thing out.

The tourism office doesn't open until ten, check the watch it’s 7.30. There is a Korean couple ( they have a flags on there back packs). I smile and they look at me like I eat babies and scamper off.

I’m just relaxing, watching the crowds bustle by when a man sits beside me and lights up his pipe. I decide to try out some of the Spanish Santi taught me and start a conversation. The man gives me a confused look and says.

‘ What language do you speak because it’s obviously not Spanish’

So that’s how I meet Ignus. A Belgian pilgrimage junkie of about 40 years of age, he has cycled so many Camino’s he has trouble telling them apart. I learn that there’s a free albergue ( pilgrims hostel) in town where I can get my Pilgrims passport ( to be stamped in villages to prove I did the camino and so I can get into albergue’s). The Albergue doesn’t open until 4pm and I’m disappointed that I won’t start my Camino until the next day. Which turns out to be a good thing as Ignus is one interesting and knowledgeable chap.

We find a cheap café and sit there talking ( well mainly listening on my part) for hours. He has seen so much and is a great story teller.  He is a very spiritual person and a lot of what he talks about is a bit out there ( or completely bonkers depending on how you look at things) but it’s interesting conversation none the less. He takes out an atlas and shows me his favourite hikes around the world which I jot down.

After 4 hours of filling the Café with smoke and only buying one coffee the waitresses make it quite clear that we have over stayed our welcome. We go for a walk through the old city of Hondirribia. He makes a great tour guide, every time we pass a building of note he tells a story about the time when it was built, mainly focusing on the misdoings of politicians and the churches. He also points out the yellow arrows I’m to follow for the camino, I had passed plenty already in Irun but mostly you don’t notice them if your not looking out.

My favourite story of the day is about a Flemish king who loved to drink., but he liked to drink in the peoples bars. So he disguised himself as a peasant and was enjoying a few beers, when he over heard a drunk bad mouthing the king. The king asked the drunk if he thought he could do a better job, yes was the drunks response. The king continued to buy the drunk beer until he passed out, then called his chauffeur and had the drunk taken to the palace and placed in the kings bed. The staff were told to treat the man as if he had always been king.

So the drunk awoke, surprised. He was dressed as a king. He sat on the throne during court. He signed documents etc. That night, being the king he ordered a massive feast. The real king played the part of his servant and once again feeding him booze until he passed out. He was then put back into his regular clothes and dropped off at the bar were he first passed out.

Don’t know if it’s true, but either way it’s a funny little story.

We head back to the Albergue and I meet my fellow pilgrims. About a dozen. Mostly a lot older than me and don’t speak English, which I’m quite happy to find, I’m not here to party or socialise. The lights go out at 10 pm but I’m to excited to sleep, I lie awake for what feels like hours, my mind churning and I realise I’m also nervous.

Day 4 - 29th April

Hitching Tip 119: Hold your sign upside down and pretend only to notice when a driver does, then laugh. If they laugh with you chances are your getting a ride!

10.30am, I’ve slept in and missed all the trucks but happy as possible and In love with the world I set off. The sun is shinning, I find a perfect spot to get a ride but decide to take it easy and read in the sun for a few hours.

Finishing the book, I stick my thumb out and smile.

Then he comes.

Dressed entirely in black, a hood pulled over his head despite the heat and a dirty old army duffel bag; hobo. He takes a spot IN FRONT of me and sticks his thumb out. This frenchie just broke the rules.

I decide to approach him and see if we can sort it out, I greet him in french and stick my hand out. He looks at my hand, grunts and turns back to the road. And I was going to share my pilfered bread and cheese with this wanker!

The man in black has just ruined my perfect morning. So options are, I can walk further along the road and hope my smile and cleaner look (it’s not often I get to play that card) will get me a ride that passes him, I can show him that we both know he’s broken the rules and I’m not going to take it or I can take another direction. In my opinion confrontations with hobo’s are best avoided, they’re reckless with nothing to loose and are frequently armed. Plus breaking the jaw of a person who is already at rock bottom over a breach of hitching rules would be pathetic. So option 2 is scratched. This guys giving me bad mojo so I decide to clear off and head towards Poitiers instead of Niort.

As soon as I’m walking away from him I feel great and half an hour later I’m sitting comfortably in the seat of another truck getting closer and closer to Spain. But it get’s better than that.

Santi a spanish truck driver can take me all the way to Irun the town where I’m starting the Camino de Santiago. His name Santi is short for Santiago.

Santi

I’ve lost the belief as I write this but at the time, I take the man in black as a ’sign’ to get me on the right path so Santi could pick me up. Sound crazy? It sounds a bit silly to me but I remember how strong the feeling to change directions was and then I’m taken to the exact town where I’m starting my camino Santiago by a man called Santiago!

We ride in silence for hours, I slouch in the comfy chair, light cigarette after cigarette and soak in the sun and beautiful views. I can’t stop smiling, life is great.

We make it within 60 km’s of the Spanish border before stupid laws require Santi to stop for the night. He’s hauling spuds so all the other Spanish truckers crowd around and we cook potato soup and chips. One of the truckers pulls out a guitar and another a harmonica and before I know I have a glass of wine in my hand and every one is singing.

Santi (right) and another driver cooking spuds in 

the back of his truck

All the different parts of Europe are represented in the truck stop. The German drivers are sitting quietly looking distrustfully at the Eastern group, checking their watches regularly to make sure they go to bed at the correct time for the most efficient day driving tomorrow. The eastern group (Polish and Czech mainly) is drinking a lot and I get along with them well, they love to laugh but also don’t let me refuse a drink so after a dozen knocks of Vodka I move on, unable to keep up. The French look like they've prepared quite a feast but give me dirty looks when I go to talk to them. Then I see some UK trucks parked together and wouldn’t mind speaking some of the Kings English so I go over to see what the craic is, but they’re all sitting in their trucks, beer in hand watching DVD’s.

The Spanish party ends pretty soon and I fall asleep in the back of the truck with the spuds.

7 hours=590km

Day 3 continued

Travel tip 37: Used tea bag strings make great dental floss!

Baloo is true to his name, big, friendly and fun. We spend the day talking about beer, cars, and life, stopping only to honk at pretty women ( who mostly for some strange reason don‘t appreciate this compliment). It had been a while since my last semi lift so I’d forgotten how comfortable they are! Big soft chairs, fridge in the middle and a high view point to take in the sights. Plus truckers always make interesting tour guides. A brothel to the left, cheap, some times poisonous food to the right etc.

Baloo, the legend

He stops in the evening for a break and buys us some beer. I learn he has a family, drives this route often but doesn’t normally pick up hitchers. He tells me he only stopped because he saw how pissed off I was with the hippie van and that made him laugh. I find the psychology in hitching quite interesting and decide to add humour to my arsenal.

We pull into a truck stop in Samaur. Baloo offers to introduce me to the other truckers as this is as far as he’s going. None of the other truckers are interested in sharing their work space with a smelly, non-French speaking man, but I don’t care. It’s been a good day. Baloo buys us a round of Rose ( sitting at a truckers/ bikers bar sipping a dainty glass of Rose with a 120kg man is an unusual experience for me). Baloo goes back to his truck and returns with half a dozen cans of food telling me that his wife buys them so he will eat healthier but he’s not interested. The generosity of this big man is amazing! We say good bye’s and I am truly sorry to see him go. After he has left I down the rest of my wine and turn to leave but the beautiful woman behind the bar stops me. Apparently Baloo has paid for me to have dinner here, the sneaky, amazing bastard!

For starters there is a buffet of breads, cold meats, cheeses and salads. I eat enough for a small village. The meal comes with a bottle of red and a choice of mains, I go for the pork chops and chips. Between the excitement of all the food and wine it’s a struggle to decide what goes in my mouth next as I try to simultaneously devour them all.

With my stomach full of food, my mind full of wine and my pockets full of bread and cheese I stumble out of the bar, smiling like a fool, content as can be. I promise my self I will pay for this indulgence by waking up early to talk to the truckers again.

Day 3= 350km

Day 3

Practically bouncing out of my sleeping bag, I pack up my home in 3 minutes flat. I’m full of energy for road. The rides are endless and by 9am I’ve covered 100km. But I’m running out energy and realise this is probable because all I’ve eaten in 48 hours is a pack of instant noodles. I see a sign for 2 euro hamburgers and can’t resist. Mmm hamburger breakfast. I brush my teeth in the restaurant bathroom after eating and feel unstoppable. My budget is shot to hell so I decide to buy some rice and make up for it over the next few days.

The ultimate mobile home
(yes these are all photos of photos taken on a
disposable camera thats why the quality is so good) 

The supermarket is massive and everything is very cheap. Danger. I leave with a bag of rice, a baseball cap and some white board markers. 10 euros. Budget drops to under 1 euro a day. Looks like it’s going to be a hard road to Santiago. I rationalise this spend, I need a hat if I’m walking for a month and with the whiteboard markers I can start hitching on roads that divide. This would be true except an hour later I leave my cap and whiteboard in the back of a van. I’m so used to my forgetfulness that I’m not even angry, this is just part of living with myself.

I’m on the road with my thumb out for a bout 3 hours with nothing. I spot a hippie van heading on to the motorway which I was trying to avoid due to lack of white board and wanting to keep the man off my back. I run to get in front of the van. It’s painted with peace symbols, flowers all the usual fare. I stick my thumb out with a smile on my face. The van drives by with a dreadlocked couple sitting in the 3 seat front cab. They glance at me and continue driving.

Are you fucking kidding me!!!! Fucking designer hippies driving around in there 9 grand VW camper for the weekend. Pissed off and consider hurling a rock at the car when a semi pulls up next to me. I decide that the VW was just a sign to get me on this road so this truck could pick me up. I don’t normally believe in signs but I’m reading Paulo Coelho’s The Alchemist and I’m very impressionable when it comes to books. Normally lasts only a few day’s. I read The Last of the Mohicans’s latter in the trip and spend 4 days trying to read boot prints and seeing how close I could sneak up to other pilgrims before they heard me. Which isn’t close, I’m heavy set and flat footed.

Laurence but goes by Baloo ( the bear from Jungle book, suits him perfectly) helps me lift my bag into his cab.

Day 3 to be continued

Day 2 – 27th April

I wake to an old man walking his dog shaking a stick at me. I assume he’s telling me I can’t put my tent here. I play the stupid tourist card and smile, he doesn’t smile back.

As I make a quick coffee one of the greatest technological advances in modern history happens. I’m looking at my bag o sugar, the can of powdered milk and jar of coffee. That stuff takes up a lot of room plus the sugar bag is already starting split and I keep finding ants in my bag. I have my coffee the same way every time right?! Now try to keep up with me here, what if I combine the three into some super instant coffee mix! As I combined the coffee, sugar and milk (my ideal mix ratio is 50:30:20) into the SAME JAR I feel the earth silence at the gravity of what was occurring. You probably don’t care but I was stoked and gave myself a super pat on the back. Ego plus 10 points.

I get a lot of various small trips including a mother and son and dog ( I sit in the back with the dog and scratch him behind the ears but then he gets a boner which is disgusting and heaps awkward.), a few farmers ( one who has a massive birth mark on his face, I try not to stare but he catches me a couple of times) and a sales man who drops me in Dieppe. The road to Fecampe is useless, it deviates all different ways and I don’t have any markers for my white board. Most of the cars look like local traffic any way. A bit disappointed with myself I spend 2 euro (over a day’s budget on this trip) for the bus.

On the bus I chat to a friendly guy who has given up his job to spend his days sailing! He has the same stupid smile and energy in his eye’s I imagine I have. He gives me the door code to the Pier toilets in Fecamp so I can get a shower. He also advises me that it’s a warm place to sleep if worst comes to worst, but after an incident a few years back I will never again think of a toilet as good place to sleep ( while typing that I realised that this would occur to most people while I had to learn the hard way). This is not something I particularly want to share but...

I was passing through Childers, Queensland on my way to Munduberra to pick some oranges. Looking for a spot to put my tent but its dark and I’m tired. I spot a park, maybe somewhere to hide my tent? Nope. Consider sleeping under the picnic table. No the snakes and spiders up here are ruthless. Then I spot the disabled toilets. Good space, wind protection and a lock on the door. What a great idea I think. It all goes well until I wake with the feeling that some ones watching me. I turn over and see a man looking at me through the gap in the bottom the door. I nearly poo. He then tells me that I’m a good looking boy and asks if I would like some company?

‘No’ Is all I can think to say

But he persists and as I start to wake up, I get pissed off. I have no problem with gays but fuck off means fuck off. Being an avid camper, I had a little hatchet in my back pack. I think the situation through. I’m pretty much a pacifist but he doesn’t know that plus he’s got me in a pretty horrible situation and words aren’t working. Time for some scare tactics. I put on a damn good crazy man act, which involves me kicking open the door and running at him screaming with the hatchet held up high. He leaves quite rapidly. But still I don’t sleep for the rest of the night.

Where were we? That’s right Fecamp. As I get off the bus, the driver asks where I’m from. We get chatting, I show him on the map the way I’m headed and he tells me the bus garage is another 10km further in the direction I’m headed.

The bus driver buys me both a coffee without asking. Along my way to Santiago I will often find this kind generosity. It fills me with guilt and makes me feel like a scab. Is this a healthy reaction or something misguided that has been programmed into me? I still can’t decide. I set some rules, always decline the first offer to make sure they’re not just being polite. Don’t be greedy and give as much back as possible. The guilt slowly diminishes and is replaced by a heart warming amazement at the generosity and kindness of strangers. Diminishes but never disappears.

He drops me off and I have no idea where I am so I consult my map and see that there a place called Doudeville!! Ok so the spellings not the same and it’s completely in the wrong direction but still a detour is definitely required to pay respects to the dude of ville’s.

No ones going to Dudeville and its getting dark. Moral minus 3 points. It’s about a 23k hike, give up or start walking? It’s a nice night and I have plenty of energy and The Big Lebowski rocked so I start walking. I cross fields and fences. I walk through a knee high crop my legs start to tingle. As it get worse I wonder if maybe these crops are sprayed with something that is not meant to be on my skin? The answer is most definitely a yes.

Hours later, my mind and body practically asleep (except for the burning legs) I stumbled up to a sign that reads ‘Doudeville’. I’m relieved more than anything, but it’s not the event I thought it would be. I wish there was someone with me to share this, a high five would be perfect. I remember something Jason McCandless aka Alexander Supertramp wrote:

‘Happiness is only real when shared’

I don’t feel that happiness is only real when shared but it certainly enhances it in some situations. This will be something my mind often chews while walking the Camino. The thought that Jason is with me at least in spirit puts a smile on my face.

Not sad but deflated I put my tent behind some trees, to tired to eat I sleep instantly.

To many hours= 132km This might take while.

Day 1 – 26th April – 6.45am.

It’s finally starting! After 3 weeks of relaxing with my family I’m off adventurising. Yes I know that’s not a word but it is now. OK?

Wake up to Buba jumping and slobbering on me, without a doubt the most effective alarm in the world. The Van Rhyn’s (my family in Brussels) are already up and about. I’d forgotten how busy the life of a young family is. I feel like a zombie and even two shots of Michel’s superbly strong coffee can’t rouse me. Probably because the day before was full of rum and sun, followed by a game where you spin round in circles then race. A cruel Belgian game, but hilarious fun.

Buba!

I say my good bye’s, and Michel and I hit the road. My brain is still not responding, until I realise that only half an hour into my trip my forgetful mind has claimed its first casualty, my favourite sun glasses have gone walk abouts. Probably for the best, although they're damn sexy they are not exactly practical.

We arrive in Nieuwpoort and I want to tell Michel what an amazing family he has and thank him for making me feel part of that family, even though we have only known each other for a short time. I express all this by shaking his hand and saying ‘Thanks mate it’s been great’

Me with the Van Rhyn small people 

As I walk along the pier full of private yachts, my mind clicks that this long awaited trip is finally beginning! Even with the 20kg backpack I feel like skipping all the way to the beach. The only other people about at this hour are pensioners bound up warmly against the cold. I’m wearing shorts and thongs. For some reason I always think beach=sun. Must have forgotten which country I was in. I pass an elderly couple neither looking as if they’re enjoying their morning stroll. I imagine they do this same walk every morning and wonder if they enjoy it or if it’s just a necessity to fill the empty days. Not wanting to kill my mood I tell myself they love their morning walks.

My plan is to walk along the coast into to France as a bit of a warm up for the Camino, but as I hit the beach my mood is dampened by cold wind and dark clouds. But worse the tide is in so I’m walking on soft sand with the wind pushing me back and kicking sand in my eyes. 


Deciding there will be plenty of time for beach walks on the Camino, I dust off my lucky thumb and head out of town walking through the overpriced but tasteful retail and residential high rises that line the coast, looking for a good place to get a ride. After less than 5 minutes a 4wd pulls over and I get my first mainland Europe ride.

Mark a Belgian who speaks English well, is a friendly fella but is only going to the next village. He says he only stopped because due to a string of hijackings he thought I wasn’t going to get a lift. This pisses me off, these oxygen thieves using my form of travel/ past time as a tool for their crime and reducing my already small chances of getting a lift. Mark advises me that these roads are not good and offers to drop me off on the entrance to the highway to Calais.

The on ramp to the E40 is not perfect, the traffic is light and the emergency stop lane can barley fit a car. Not the best but it will do. The glares that I receive tell me I’m in for a long wait. So I wait and wait and wait. As usually happens at times like these my mind wander’s and I wonder, is today the day I’m picked up by a Swedish women’s beach volley ball team?

4 hours later Sebastian a French hippie who doesn’t speak any English stops, ignoring the impatience honks of the cars behind him. I deduct that he’s turning off to go to Lille and we decide through hand gestures that we will drop me at the turn off. At least that’s what I hope I’ve just agreed to. We both attempt conversation but it always ends in confused looks and us both laughing at the pointlessness of our attempts. Turns out saying English words in a French accent does not make him able to understand me. I feel like listening to some music so I start humming and tapping my legs, a trick I learnt that always gets the driver to put one some tunes. Nearly straight away he puts a CD in, some Indian type hippie stuff with western beats, pretty good.

He drops me off on the turn pike where his highway meets mine, once again ignoring the abuse from the cars behind and just stopping at his own leisure. Fucking ledgend. But the ramp is useless for a lift, the cars are going too fast and there’s no stop lane.

So two options, I can either back track to the petrol station we passed 4km ago or I can make my way to the next exit. I hate back tracking so I choose the latter. If I could rethink this choice, ah fuck it, I’d do the same it was a bit of fun.

I descend the slope leaving through thick thorny bushes to find myself in a nice park with a walking path running parallel to the highway! I can see a sign on the highway that promises exit 53 is 5.7km away. Meh could be worse. Then my luck ends.

I hit obstacle one. Railway, 12 tracks wide. Knowing how fast some of the trains go I’m not stocked about crossing and it’s on a long bend so visibility is not great. So I get over quickly keeping my ears open. Instantly I’m faced with obstacle two, an 8 foot mesh fence with barbwire. It runs the length of the train line and I can’t see any holes. After some structural adjustments to the fence with my swiss army knife I’m able to squeeze under and then return the fence to its original condition. 4km’s through more of those god damn thorny bushes and I hit obstacle three, a forty meter wide river. Shit. The suns getting hot, my bags starting to feel heavy and sweat is stinging the cuts on my legs so I’m pissed off. As always I do a mental check list of my options, weighing the pro’s and con’s then ignoring the results and doing what seems like the most fun. So we have 1. Cross the river on the emergency stop lane of the highway (suicidal and will draw unwanted attention), 2. A 60 metre long train bridge (not good but let’s keep it mind just in case) or 3. Follow the river till I come to a safe bridge, but I can see quite a distance and there’s none for at least a km in each direction. I don’t want to die and I’ve seen the movie ‘stand by me’. Feeling defeated I head off in search of another way, but as I get closer I notice there’s a foot wide pipe straddling the railway bridge. Looks sturdy. Not wanting to lose time and feeling some fun a foot I decide this is my way.

Just in case I try to put my passport, wallet and cigarettes in a water proof case I have, but they all won't fit. So I wrap my wallet and passport poncho and have peace of mind seeing my cigarettes safe and sound in the water proof case. Know your priorities. Up and over I go, safely with no trains. I look back at the river, proud having defeated it. Fuck you river who's smarter now huh? I feel like Bear Grylls. Moral up ten points.

Exit 53 has good place for a car to stop and is at the end of a roundabout, slowing the cars down. Perfect.

A banged up Citroën sedan soon pulls over, I open the door and am greeted by a guy about my age. Smoke stained teath and lips, scraped up bleeding knuckles and half the interior of the car is missing. Hmmm. You always get these sorts of rides and there normally ‘fine’ so I get in. He can drop me in Calais. I try to ask him if I’m in France yet but he doesn’t understand. Then I see a sign, turns out I’m in France woop woop! He ask if I want music, I nod and at 140km/h in the fast lane he gets me to hold the steering wheel while he leisurely flips through his I-pod. He then lights a joint, only 4 clicks to Calais luckily.

I’m stunned still, when a well dressed pretty woman in a new hatch back stops to pick me up. She pops the trunk for my bag and looks at me like ‘well what are you waiting for?’. She is a smoker and speaks English which gets her two gold stars! And can take me all the way to Abberville. She spends the whole time on the phone which I don’t mind, saves me from the repetitive small talk.

After her I’m picked up twice by women by themselves. Very unlikely, I take this as a sign hitching in france is going to be a piece of cake. The last one Emma is originally from the south of England and invites me back to her house to have dinner with her husband and kids. Something about this woman makes me uncomfortable, I like to think I have good gut instincts, plus it’s my first day back in the old life and I’m looking forward to trying my new tent and camp fire cooked bake beans. I politely decline and she drops me off in Treport. I sprint to the beach hopping to catch the sunset, missing it by only 10 minutes or so. But the colours in the sky are still brilliant. (pic4)

I follow the coastal road out of town, through the tacky neon lights of seafood restaurants and a beach side Casino. I have to walk for about an hour til I’m out of town and can put my tent up in a field. On the way I pass a tiny eerily moonlit commonwealth soldiers cemetery. (pic5)

8 hours of hitching = 214km Not good but there’s no rush.

I go to sleep happy with no sound other than the wind, smelling of camp fire. Bliss.