Last night's gite was called La Passeur-Elle, a nice play on words. To enter the gite you crossed a little bridge, une passerelle. The hospitalier, Christiane, explained to me that she, Elle, was the passeur, the passer-by or walker.
"Elle" also suggested the femimine presence in this gite. Everything was scrupulously clean and methodical. Each bunk in the dormitory had its own little bed light and table. And in the loo, along with a neat line of toilet rolls, was a notice in words to this effect:
In the interest of hygiene and the comfort of all, Gentlemen, please remain seated at all times.
Evidently someone's aim wasn't up to scratch.
I am now walking in rolling cerial country, often following tracks through the fields themselves. The broom and gorse of the wilder country have been replaced by roadside flowers: daisies and buttercups, yarrow or Queen Anne's lace, herb Robert, and of course, the ubiquitous stinging nettles.
The nettles can be hazardous to someone in shorts. A narrow path can be overgrown with nettles, or sometimes they can be so close to the road that stepping out of the way of the traffic can mean stepping into the nettles. Hobson's choice!
Tonight I am staying at a gite run by the Church at Baziege.
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