Madrid in the rear-view mirror

We’re all hung over and the journey is for dreams. I’m just totally sleep deprived after a night in a cheap and clean but extremely restless hostel. If I had two hours I’d be surprised. The other passengers smell of sweat and pull out their best comfort for the kilometres that hum by. Madrid is in the rear-view mirror and Toulouse ahead. I curl onto the seat and lie on my bag.

At some point I break my zeds and discover that the bones of the mountains are lying naked under an azure sky. The Spanish side is bare and beautiful. Then a long tunnel divides the dry southern landscape from the green-cloaked body of France.

It’s a ten hour trip by bus and thankfully there was a decent sandwich shop on the French side because I left while the shops were still shuttered in Madrid. The driver navigated the tortuous curves with prowess and we arrived at the gare routière in Boulevard Pierre Semard ten minutes ahead of schedule. Sigh of relief because I still had a train to catch.

PS please excuse the quality of the photos. My phone was the lazy and convenient option.

At Home in Madrid

Madrid is awesome. There’s no doubt that the architecture is amazing and the people are cool. Of course I shouldn’t sleep, there’s bars waiting with great tapas and craft beer, an overload of fabulous images and people to absorb. But I’m on a mission. I need to be in France.

I started off in a tiny village this morning, some two hours from Granada at the bottom end of Spain. I’ve been house-sitting. That’s where the dog came into the picture. (https://wildartwanderer.travel.blog/2019/07/24/the-dog/)

Ten hours later I’m in the big city and in a few more I’ll be in Toulouse. It’s a reckless way to travel but I’ve been to Madrid before and I have a deadline for another house-sit job near Toulouse.

I’ll be on another bus heading for another home. It’s been that way ever since I began travelling two years ago. Nothing stable. Everything to discover. In the meantime, I want to remember that there are so many people who are genuinely homeless without a safety net. I’m one of the lucky ones.

The Dog

This was going to be a story about sandals, weaving in the importance of recycling and keeping stuff out of landfill but the dog got in the way. He’s not mine. I don’t like the idea of owning an animal but it seems that he likes the idea of owning me. His person is away and I’m doing the feeding and walking so I have become the love of his life.

This week we took to the mountains when the heat of the day had dropped a degree or two. ‘Climate change’, I told him. ‘Walk!’ he replied. So we did.

Yesterday I crossed the range, up, down and across the rocky terrain until I came to the village of Pitres. Lucky followed me, in spite of every trick I had to make him stay. He raced along the roman paths, played in the stream and chased lizards amongst the medicinal herbs and dried grasses of the Alpujarra. It was the perfect dog day until his luck ran out. I put out my thumb and when the first car stopped I left him there. (Remember, I had tried love, my best communication skills, then insults and even throwing stones to avoid this moment of abandonment.)

Today I returned, tired after hitch-hiking in forty degrees heat. ‘Climate change,’ I told the driver. ‘Si, cambio climatico,’ he agreed.

And there was Lucky. In the plaza… waiting.

A day at the river

“Breathe in, breathe out. This is a sanctuary. Take off your weary clothes and the shoes that no longer shield your soles from the grit of the journey. “

Jeni McMillan

It’s another hot day at Laguépie in the south of France and everyone is hanging out at the river. The lifeguard has a steady gaze. There’s screams, splashing and laughter as this crazy, inflatable spaceship rock and rolls.

The local kids are smoking cigarettes in the shade, wrapped in each others arms or taking selfies while Parisian girls cluster at the edge and dry their long black braids in the sun.

We are all shapes and sizes, ages and backgrounds with the same language of laughter. We are residents, visitors, travellers and refugees.

Thanks to Val Johnson, for introducing me to some of the guys who have made it to France against enormous odds and found refuge in this small community. Val has been tireless with fund-raising, finding homes and resources and for encouraging diversity and inclusiveness. I’m also grateful to the people I met for their generosity and smiles. I wish everyone a future where peace and happiness is as simple as a day at the river.

How to get from A to B

This is not a definitive list. Some people are way more adventurous than I am. And as lists go, how to I order it?

At the moment my preferred method for getting around is on foot. Very old school and not going to be for the couch potatoes but fabulous for really seeing things in all their detail – a total winner for artists and poets. No cost except for wear and tear on footwear.

Hitchhiking is another favourite. Every lift is an adventure. Every person has a story to tell. No cost other than be a good listener.

The train is great for stretching out and sleeping when the fatigue of travel or socialising has caught up. It can be cheap. Check Evasio futé in the Occitanie region of France.

There are some great bus companies like ALSA, Flixbus and OUI. Often super cheap and sometimes the WIFI works but not always in the centre of town. A ticket from Madrid to Toulouse cost me less than 10 Euros.

There’s also Blablacar, my favourite for learning the local language and sometimes cheaper than the bus. It’s organised hitchhiking with a well organised and secure site. You can see where the driver is going, the time for the trip, their references and how much it costs in advance.

Finally, the bike is a sheer joy. Australia and New Zealand are currently the only countries where helmets are mandatory so I’m taking advantage of the wind in my hair and the freedom of coasting down a long and deserted hill.

Homage to Henri

Okay, I have to confess that I’m not a newbie in France. I made a life here once and it was sweet as the grass that Henri Jambart scythed by hand and fed to his tiny herd of cattle. Henri was my neighbour and my friend and he worked the land with sweaty love. He was the tail end of a tradition that went back further than he could count.

He didn’t go to the Second Great War due to an accident where his hand was caught in a machine. I knew that was a fortunate thing but Henri felt otherwise. The other men had stories to tell around the kitchen table and different scars to compare.

I learned many things from this man; that every season had it’s place, independence was to be valued at the cost of relationships and friendship could be made across generational, language and cultural boundaries.

I visited the cemetery recently and sat with his grave but I am sure that Henri is with his fields. I found a ball of string he used to line up his plots of Summer vegetables. The old oak tree knows. It stands sentinel over it all.

https://www.blurb.com/b/4837096-under-my-fingernails

Getting around France

I love hitch-hiking. People ask me about the risks involved and I tell them my best stories about grandmothers and women, with children stacked in the back seat, who decide to save me from danger and then happily take me to my destination. Then there are the locals. One of my favourite lifts was from a retired fireman who dropped me off in the middle of nowhere and continued up a track to his mother’s 95th birthday party. Lovely. However it was a stretch of road with no sign of traffic or habitation and a storm was about to hit. Fortunately he left me with his umbrella.

Trails in Dordogne

The French know how to walk. Every Sunday, you can see clusters of friends or family making their way between villages after the Midday meal has settled. During the week there are clubs for the more dedicated. Large groups take to the paths that traverse the fields and the forest and work up an appetite for a three course meal with wine in the local hall or restaurant.

I’ve been lucky enough to join a few of these social events, to walk the beautiful countryside, to parley French with the locals and then raise too many glasses with the rest.

The Garden Path

I found Maud Rebiere at the bottom of her garden in the south of France, collecting petals in a wicker basket she made when there was more time to play. Plants are her life and this is the busy season. She harvests medicinal herbs from the plants she grows from seed and gathers wild plants from nature in areas untouched by agricultural sprays. The herbal teas and balms she makes are organically certified .

Maud understands the importance of the natural world and the need for biodiversity to pollinate plants and she passes her knowledge on to groups who visit the historical farm, Le Parcot, at Échourgnac in the Dordogne region.

A Passage in Time

It’s not only black and white. The minor chords of grey that make the symphony complete and harmonious are playing in my mind. I have history here. Stone steps that leave an impression on the soft humous scattered about the earthy floor.

I am travelling light, treading lighter, carrying my creativity wherever I go.

(See https://jenimcmillan.wordpress.com/ for more photography and musings)