September 6, 2026
Lectoure -> Condom
Some days, the chemin is like a beloved detective mystery show: the outcome is never in doubt, but the twists, turns, red herrings and unique characters are what we tune in for. This was such a day.
“Make hay while the sun doesn’t shine” is our temporary motto for these heatwave times. Unusually, we started downhill which gave way to transcendent views of Lectoure at daybreak. The sunflowers stirred.
As we reached a Y in the trail, we saw a pilgrim waving his poles and shouting enthusiastically, so we, of course, went that way. This led to an awkward half hour of mangled, tangential blather about short cuts, expensive camping and grandiose plans. Professional courtesy prevailed, despite his spittle and the whiff of dank sleeping bag, until we alighted at Marsolan’s café, befriended an all-too-familiar cat and left him to his hand-rolling. It takes a chemin to maintain “Lulo”…
Forest bathing walks are full of mossy closeness and oxygen. A hike with eternal, pleasing, orderly vistas? That’s gas… that’s Gascony!
We were so hot and humid that sweat was finding all the new creases on our aging skins. Another short cut helped us avoid La Romieu, the feline-themed village we’d visited a few years back by car. All was parched.
Small statues kept us bemused.
Our corner-cutting met its match alongside a lake. An emoji-laden laminated sheet directed us the long way around, claiming the regular route, which just glanced the lake, was ‘impractical’. As we’ve been burned before by disobeying such notices, we decided to be practical. The lake was actually a man-made barrage and a depleted one at that. Across the water, less-obedient (or more informed) fellow pilgrims were climbing the hill beyond… curses flowed briefly.
45 minutes of sticky clumping later, we came upon a hiking couple who were even more waylaid than us and in a ‘bad energy’ place. We gathered forces for the remainder of the loop, the only sounds being the clacking of poles. Once we’d reconnected with the GR65, in all its emblazoned accuracy, they held up, bickering, as we sped on and vowed not to let the chemin tear us apart.
So we drooped, or perhaps dribbled, into Condom, a place we’ve been before and exhausted all the double-entendres. After getting a bit lubricated on rosé a la piscine, we had decent tapas (no ribs though) at the only bistro open on Sunday. Our strange hotel room had AC and a bidet, so that was a wrap!
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