Before relating today's events it's best if I back up to Day Six: the leg between Nasbinals to St Chely d'Aubrac.

It's the day that may well define the rest of the journey!

The evening before we left was a night to forget and deserves a separate blog!

It was meant to be a 17 Kms walk with the highest point on the Camino being reached at the midpoint, then the rather rapid descent into St Chely (a drop of close to 500 metres down some very hairy rock strewn narrow tracks). I made it to the top (Mt Aubrac) but by then the bursitis, for which I had received two cortisone injections in the past few months, kicked in. So prudence, rather than valour, took over and I decided to take the less precipitous route - the main road, which on its own presented its special challenges.

The first one was major- I sought advice about the direction and was assured that I was heading in the right direction. It was cold and bleak over perhaps the least attractive part of the country side in this area. As I pressed on I became concerned that my advisor was not a local, and the bursitis (as if to chastise me) increased in discomfort. However, a passing cyclist answered "Oui!", in answer to my pleading: "St Chely?", without stopping.

Surveying the landscape, bleak and seemingly devoid of human habitation, a crisis was looming without any immediate solution. Then hope arrived in the person of a local farmer driving an ancient tractor, resembling the great and tried 'Ferguson tractor' so popular in Australia, which we, as seminarians drove around the farms which doubled as seminaries. (One was famously driven between two trees after a day's work- the problem: the width of the front wheels was wider than the gap between the two trees. So, ended the life of one Ferguson.

But back to the story at hand.

The farmer throttled down and hearing the magic words "St Chely", joyfully indicated I should return to a turn off, some two Ks back and turn right. Happily, he had helped, he throttled on. He was the first and only vehicle which stopped to render assistance during the day and dozens had passed by this pilgrim, trying to look forlorn and in need of help, but to no avail. Hadn't they heard of the Good Samaritan?

On reaching the turn off I rested again on one of the colourful white and red road warning posts about 'sharp curves' and then headed down a more isolated and lonely road. The distance travelled between rests shortened as the pain increased. Eventually I made an executive decision to lie down on the side of the road and have a rest, thinking there was a distinct possibility of staying there the night. After a few minutes rest, just as I stood to move on a car approached. I quickly put on my most tragic and desperate look, hands joined in supplication. The car slowed and cautiously the passenger window descended.

Who was this fool way out here? They must have thought. I pulled out my itinerary and pointed to the phone number of the place where I was staying. By this time, they had decided that while I might be loopy, I was not a terrorist and insisted I put my pack and sticks on the back of their SUV. For the next 15 minutes, as the husband drove down the steep and winding road to St Chely, I sat in the front seat, while the wife plied me with questions, none of which I could answer with any meaning, except to say, "thank you" and "how wonderful" they were in French. I apologised for taking up his Sunday time and he replied by taking his hands off the steering wheel and twiddling his thumbs - indicating (I think) "not a problem".

We arrived at the bottom of the gorge and found the hotel, shared our goodbyes and my endless "thank yous", as they explained their devotion to St Jacques on whose trail they had been walking as their Sunday outing. Had they not stopped I would have spent the night somewhere high above St Chely, by the side of the road.

I have written this sorry tale not for sympathy or concern but to indicate that I have become very much aware of my limitations and may not be able to complete the pilgrimage as planned. I hasten to add that I actually walked more than 26Kms when the guide book said "17", which I think suggests that the distance between places, as stated in the books, is "as the crow flys" and not as the "pilgrim walks". I am determined to walk to St Jean even if it means taking a day off occasionally, and if necessary catching a bus at times. Be assured you will be informed.

Thus, ends the sorry tale with a happy ending and the promise of a more uplifting story of my stay at Angela Merici's Convent last night.

Warm regards
Jim