If you had a chance to see the "where has he been" map, you will have justifiably concluded that it suggests I have "lost the plot" or worse: been on a drunken binge. It's to do with the location map of the blog set up. I mention this because you may be confused with the days- this is entirely my fault. So let's go back to Thursday the 14th of September- the day I arrived in Conques, after a somewhat demanding, but encouraging day. I posted some of the photos of this extraordinary place that is saturated with history.

(By the way the pronunciation of Conques is like we pronounce Konk at least to me hence the title.)

In the evening I attended Vespers, sung in choir, in the huge Church of stark severe beauty in contrast to the exuberance and florid gothic expressions of faith and wealth of churches in Spain. The five monks dressed in white habits corralled the attendees into the front section of the church with an intricate, but seemingly uncoordinated, series of intricate 'ballet like' movements of ropes and clips. One fellow removing a rope, the next replacing it, and so on, until all six monks of the community had arrived and finally vespers began. (Norbertines I think.)

I had factored in a rest day on Friday and what a welcome decision it was! The time spent exploring the history and the buildings was informative and therapeutic.

Saturday the 16th

Refreshed after a day off, I headed out for Decazeville.

Recently Paul, a frequent pilgrim, asked about some of the features of this Camino in comparison to the Spanish one. Nothing it seems has changed. Very few people. Yesterday for example, I met one local lady collecting mushrooms in the forest. She had just carefully picked one the size of your little finger from its tip up the first joint. She carefully brushed off the dirt and dropped it into her bucket- the first for the day. She then explained that there are two kinds that look the same but one is poisonous- be careful. I recalled the strange soup I ate the previous evening- it had little mushrooms swimming around a lightly poached egg, I hoped the cook knew the difference- so far so good.

Back to the track- a sprightly middle aged lass from Quebec, who is bilingual, joined me for a time and then pressed on ahead. Other than the donkeys and one man who told me I was taking the wrong path- this time only four paces rather than 4 Ks - makes for a lonely journey- offering plenty for reflection. Yesterday I spent time thinking about Muriel, Wilai and the Rohingya- and thought of our capacity for evil and violence and at the same time the possibilities for generosity and compassion and education.

I must finish now with the promise of starting my next blog with my time here in Dullsville- and the answer to the question: When is a hotel not a hotel? The answer is found here- see you in Figeac.

Thanks for following.

Jim