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Two postcards carried 50km

Downhill today.  Just a touch of up to a strange site. A german military cemetary on French soil, how strangely must the psyches of people here be formed. Cold metal crosses under Scots pine trees, ringed in stone. Camp in Turkheim where Cranes circle in the skies. A music festival, an accordian orchestra and a punk funk band called The Noseshits.. And Colmar, through a hypermarches and down backwater routes to St. Joseph.

At the end of a hard, yet amazing 36km I slept in a less than perfect stretch of pine forest, steep and rooty, with its fair share of bugs due to nearby boggy sections. A fleet of motorcyclists swept the mountain road down below my camp. I ate soup, amazing how amazing simple hot food can be at need. I had walked a long way off the path to find a place to camp so the next morning I woke early, pine cones digging into shoulder blades, roots wrapped around hips. And here, for the first time, my scheduling – or sort of scheduling – provided a slight of relief, two short days followed by two days off in the medival town of Colmar. But first the two ‘short’ days.

19km to Turkheim. I dragged myself downhill, snaking on a small lane round the nearby peaks to get back to the path and siscovered I had walked 3km out of my way just to find somewhere very crap to sleep. The days path, marked by a blue x, took us off the road between a very shy gap between gardens, stepping above their lawns and a small stream, a pile of gnomes in one garden, a pile of vegetables in the other. The steeps little gulley worked my legs and I missed my staff, straining for something to drag me up the hill. I soon sat down, atop a sort of crest that fell steeply away to the watery cause of all this hill. I found the nearest staff sized object and set about carving a handle for myself. Then I ate an apple in its entirety, casting just the little stalk into the woodland, and rose again. Music was the hardest thing, not having much music, or the time to sit and listen to it properly. The path and I kept climbing, a neat gulley between pine on the left and steep fields on the right falling up. At some point the path I needed to take had been rudely taped off with something like police tape but in yellow, I stepped over it and the path broke out into fields either side, light streaming in from the ever widening sky. A pipe poked out of a wall nearby gushing water of a slightly foul nature onto the path, causing slipping and squelching. I arched round this low wall and onto the farm drive, a house behind me defended by a private sign and a picture of a dog. I kept climbing to this next crest, two balloons deflated from a party tied to a lamp post, bright yellow flowers dancing in a wind only my face could feel, an elderly man dressed in gentlemans dress passed me by, was it sunday morning? A church day, I wasn’t sure, he was well dressed though, thats sure. An ancient tractor crept our way, a father and his two young children wrapped up in coats out to do a mornings work. I pulled faces at the kids as they went past, giggling, a stream of cows had just been unleashed on the fields below and they were gushing out mooing and braying in their freedom. I turned and set off to get over this last little uphill.

One of those sprawling villages the continent seemed by now to favour, no real heart to it just lots of space, extensive vegetable patches and me, perusing the gardens searching for a tap that might provide my first drink of the day. All attached to hoses or housed inside. Its something like 8am. It could be a monday. I press on and stop at a small field of goats and nibble precious items from a cherry tree. These are rich up here, bountiful this side of the mountains, high boughs cast in deep shades of purple, the edges depleted by people like me, and tall goats. A bunch of cyclists at a bus stop, all weeing on nearby trees, very strange.

My map confuses me here, there are a mess of paths, a nice looking hotel, and so many cherry trees. This is the flat crest, I have reached the final peak of the Vosges and they have built houses all over it. Cyclists and motorcyclists, by the time I reach a huge ants nest I realise I’ve gone the wrong way, I rest my stick too close to the nest and a hundred ants, in aggresive postures mount themselves upon it, they climb onto my boots and after watching them for a while, I shake the little buggers off and abscond, back the way I came. I am comfortable today, I know its not far, in the sunlight I sit on a bench, little statue of Jesus just over my shoulder and I listen to a few songs on my phone, sit there smiling. A house nearby is blaring out French Reggae and I really enjoy this too. I walk past a campsite where civilised people go to sleep, but they do not get to watch pine martins over breakfast. The paths multiply like rabbits under beautiful canopies of woodland, tempting pine beds and open stretches of broadleaf. I wiggle a bit there are so many options, like walking the streets of london, criss cross left then right being the same as right then left. Several cyclists, several walkers, all with enviably small looking rucksacks, a muesli bar a bottle of warter, a camera perhaps. Lightweights.

I come to a bit of a clearing and behind some hedgerows is  a large Chalet that seems to be hosting some not so secret meeting of sunday hikers. Elderly couples arrive in fancy cars and try and figure out where to park, childrens voices rise in E-number fueled screams. I sit on a bench here for a while, perpetually glad to let the floor carry my rucksack for a while. An elderly couple, fit and elegant as 17th century violins walk the path in front of me, and intrigued by the size of my rucksack they enquire as to where I am going. After explaining my intimidatingly poor French I tell them I am walking to Switzerland. I seem to have arrived at a geographical location where this is no longer a mad prospect. A long way yes, but not completely insane. I tell them I plan to do it in about 10 or 12 days from here, the man makes an impression of a buff, muscular man to suggest that by then I will be almost superhuman. I become tempted to explain I’ve walked the majority of the way from London but hold myself back, knowing my french is not particularly capable of the task of justifying this madness. They walk on, poles in hand. I head for the small town of Trois Epis where finally I can gather some water. I also stop for a coffee and cake, and a can of coke, and write the postcards I bought on the other side of the Vosges at Col Du Bonhomme.

This town is home to the German grave on French soil, a detailed list of all the soldiers is included in a hole in the wall, the pattern of the grave is different, the mood created by the setting much heavier. The whole experience is quite dark, hidden on the edge of town beneath a pile of pine trees and ringed in stone.

Alphabetically deceased

There is a visitors book aswell but it is completely empty, at this I become intimidated and can think of nothing to say though I so much want to say something.

The rest of the journey is downhill, hundreds of little electric blue beetles are here. On one pile of poo on the pathside there seem to be at least fifty all rolling over each other in glee. I eat lunch formed of Comte, Apples and hunks of bread on a neat little outcrop of rocks amongst a very open stretch of pine woodland, I treat myself to some more songs from my phone and text England to let it know I’m ok. A cyclist moving at speed is the only person I see all afternoon. I also pass several concrete bunkers built into the forest, small windows and scars of gunfire. I try and creep inside one but my rucksack doesnt fit and I use this as an excuse to avoid admitting I find it a bit too alarming.

The edge of Turkheim is covered in vineyards, these are the first I’ve seen since champagne and these are dedicated to wine, caves are built into the hills beneat them as I arrive into the old town centre. I circle the campsite, desperate for an entrance, for a shower, for a sit down, to get this thing off and not have to put it on again for at least a few hours. I lie down in the sun in my own corner near my exploded pile of things and drift in and out of sleep. Opening my eyes occasionally a giant bird circles the air above. 3pm.

For the duration of my trip across France I have passed through villages that have just had or are just about to have fetes, festivals or parties of some sort, but now, in Turkheim was my time. I arrived into town the evening of the towns Fete De La Musique! On offer were several things, an accordian orchestra, a covers act playing Doors songs amongst other things and a young punk-funk trio called, somewhat incongruously The Noseshits. Hmmm. Choices.

Turkheim by the way has an incredibly quaint 16th century town centre, all bright pastel buildings and wooden frames, eccentric clock faces and shops full of tea towels, that sort of thing. Old town gates with rickety stairwells up the sides, a pub called Le Homme Savage which was, at the moment I walked passed it blasting out Total Eclipse of the Heart by Bonnies Tyler. Further down the street some kids were pumping trance classics out of their bedroom window and round the corner the ubiquitous French hiphop also from some upstairs windows, somewhat reminiscent of La Haine. I enjoyed a bierre Picon in the backyard and was tricked into excitement by a Hummingbird Moth that fed on the pub flowers. I did not however, particularly enjoy the noseshits. The Accordian orchestra on the other hand were a bit fantastic.