Our Moveable Feats

June 14, 2026

Vers -> Cahors

This was a day of heat, hindrance and humility.

Declining the lavish but late breakfast in favour of bakery fare, we angled for an early start; the forecast was for a chaud-chaud-chaud 33 degrees, so we needed to make hay while the sun was low.

This part has no stopover towns and there are some 11 hiking tracks that criss-cross the area. Yet, we’ve cracked the code of the Lot Valley rambler and would again avoid high passes and heatstroke by using the vestiges of the decommissioned Cahors-Capdenac railway: another strategic bridge was a mere 3Km south us.

We passed a small church from 933 AD, waking with Sunday morning murmur. Piled rails were encouraging but -alas- we were foiled by layers of genuine barriers on the approach to our bypass.

Humbled, we traipsed back along the rail-less track to Vers, only to find ourselves hemmed in by a high wall… yet, and there must have been enough dilettantes over the years, a quaint steel ladder was in the perfect place for us to return roadside. Although, hopping from 8 ft onto a busy road with a 30lb pack takes some timing and planning!

Micro-disaster (and 5 extra km) out of the way, we acquiesced to the regular route. After another 8km of twists, turns, paths and roads, we dropped into a lovely dale… with a sign that said “Vers 3km”! Trail karma had visited us and we had no choice but to march over a high cliff via a semi-gravel road.

To add insult to injured feet, the apex of this grind opened onto a vista of the bridge not taken, in all it’s Eifelesque glory:

Thus began the long muggy scuffle into Cahors and our final negotiation with the Lot river. Signs of municipal life emerged as we switched between steamy forest and exposed, roasting fields of young corn, sunflowers and wilty lettuce.

After we passed under a superhighway, an orchard welcomed us to pause and finish our rations and the locks provided diversion (unless rudely occupied by a topless sunbather).

Do we dare another shortcut on this blighted Sunday? Third time’s the charm, some masochist said, so we map-app’d up, turned inland and staggered into the pizza oven that is suburban Cahors: no trees, cement and limestone houses, rutted sidewalks. The only open épicerie proved adequate and we made like foie gras geese by shot-gunning our Oranginas.

The prospect of another hour of dreadful city walking was so dispiriting that our slumped, flushed selves attracted a Camino angel, who, having seen my shell and knowing that we were far off-path, insisted on driving us to our hotel, shoving aside boxes and a pile of wood to fit us in. Her name was Malorie (riding next to me) and we’ll not forget her generosity.

We then checked our bags and toodled about, revisiting the octroi pilgrim welcome centre and wondering where le petit train was in our hour of need? The place looked shabbier than 2 or 5 years ago, or perhaps that’s all in the eye of the beholder?

A pool swim, fascinating dinner and decent air-con healed some wounds but this was certainly the hardest day!

The hardest day… so far.